


Pet

by Only_1_Truth



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 24-7 kinks!AU, Bathing/Washing, Collars, Complete, Hand Feeding, Hurt Q, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond Takes Care of Q, Kneeling, Light BDSM, M/M, Pet!AU, Q is a Pet, Sensual but not sexual, Sensuality, Sharing a Bed, or at least BDSM undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: James is what the world calls a Grim: an individual with a low or nonexistent emotional quotient.  All Grims were psychopathic on a certain level, rarely (if ever) connecting with humanity on an compassionate, emotional level, making them uniquely equipped for the kinds of jobs that turned most people’s stomachs (or challenged their morals).  In other words, James made a damn fine MI6 agent.  Bond was on the slightly more emotive end of that scale, however, so when he hears that Q - a Pet, an individual who thrives on contact and trust, and who had an incredibly high emotional quotient - has been attacked in MI6, he doesn't hesitate to answer M's summons to come home.Because Bond might be coldhearted, but there's just something about a Pet like Q that gets under his skin - and right into the few warm corners of his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to make a quick note, to elaborate on the tags: Although Q is attacked in this fic, he is _not_ sexually assaulted. So if sexual assault is a trigger for you - no worries. (Bond figures this out pretty quickly, too, and is relieved as hell)

Grims like Bond were inclined towards long, extended periods of time alone, always a step apart from humanity even if they were (for the most part) capable of functioning in the thick of it.  Therefore, it was natural for 007 to stay in the field for months, even years at a time, checking in but rarely, and often only making direct contact with M and a few others before heading out again like a charming, handsome shade.  Therefore, it was a rare day indeed when he was called back to MI6 for something more than a fleeting check-in, receiving an urgent missive shortly after finishing off a deep-cover mission.  

“The explosion took down most of MI6 headquarters, and it’s been a political and logistical nightmare ever since,” M informed James over the phone even as the 00-agent packed, his expression barely twitching as he learned the true breadth of the pandemonium that had erupted while he was ‘playing dead’ and hunting with dangerous efficiency under that guise.  Grims were made for deep-covers like that, deep covers that required totally cutting themselves off from their lives and histories, and he had enough practice that it was only marginally jarring to be reminded that he was still attached to other people, to MI6.  

“You’ve changed locations then, I gather?” he asked wryly, checking his Walther in its holster and slipping a few more knives away into their sheaths, all so hidden that even a frisking would be hard-put to find them.  Bond’s ability to smile with perfect, harmless charm also helped in making sure that people underestimated him, even when he was armed to the teeth.  

“We had little choice, with the building nothing but a pile of rubble,” M replied with clear but resigned ire.  She went on, “Consequently, we had a major upset in the general chain of command, and when a Pet was promoted to Quartermaster, there were unexpected results that no one was prepared to deal with.”

“Was she unfit to handle the job?” Bond asked, dubious.  He had a lot of experience with Pets - had actually had training in that regard before coming to MI6 - and knew that they could be quite capable, just as Grims like himself could actually be quite companionable.  Stereotypes weren’t everything.  

“He, not she,” M corrected without missing a beat, “And he handled the job just fine, but a disgruntled coworker took it upon himself to protest what he saw as an unfair reassignment.  Because of how hectic things have been, the full severity of the situation was not realized until it was too late.  Q managed to actually get his branch up and running before the incident, but now I fear that he may be irreparably damaged by the events that came to a head last week.”

All Grims were psychopathic on a certain level, rarely (if ever) connecting with humanity on a compassionate, emotional level, making them uniquely equipped for the kinds of jobs that turned most people’s stomachs (or challenged their morals).  Bond was on the slightly more emotive end of that scale, however, and his frown had grown more thunderous with every word M said.  007 had a soft spot for Pets, a fact that M but very, very few others knew.  “What happened?” he demanded flatly even as he put his mobile on speakerphone so that he could pack more efficiently and quickly.

M began to lay out the details: “We’re still piecing the story together with reports that should have been collected immediately instead of in hindsight.  Malcomb Ree, the previous R who was passed over for the designation of Q because of some discrepancies in his work, started verbally harassing the new Q soon after the branch was relocated.  The relative seclusion of Q-branch’s new location made it easy to hide his misbehaving, but we have reason to believe that no physical attacks were made before a week ago.”

“And then?” Bond’s tone had dropped subtly, turning his natural rumble into an avalanche growl.  He was only bothering to pack the essentials, leaving the rest behind and knowing that he could recoup any personal losses easily once he was back in London.  Speed of travel was more important now.

“Mr. Ree managed to trap Q in one of the sub-basements.  Due to extensive renovations, it was one of many places that are not only out of the way, but fairly private.”  M’s voice was solemn as she ploughed onwards stoically, “He physically assaulted Q, starting with what looks like slapping and escalating to abusing Q with a choke-collar that nearly suffocated him and left severe damage to his throat.  That’s why we don’t have more specific details - Q is unable to talk easily as yet, although I worry more about the psychological damage.”

Bond’s eyes were cold but by now he was standing rigidly, not moving as if he were trying to encase a hurricane within his skin, and one tiny move could send it spiralling free.  It was customary for all Pets to wear collars, their bodies reacting naturally with releases of serotonin and dopamine to the sensation of something around their necks.  Similar reactions resulted when they were well-cared for, obviously, but in a situation of extreme stress like this, a collar would usually be a source of solace - but now Q would likely never wear one again, regardless of the comfort it could offer.  007 didn’t realize that he was growling low under his breath until M noted it.

“Before you ask, no, I don’t want you to deal with Mr. Ree.  He’s already been taken into custody, and is in the process of being dealt with severely.  I dare say that everyone feels about as much pity for him as you do.”  Meaning no pity at all: Pets were precious, and something had to be deeply wrong with a person for them to consider hurting one with impunity.  Even hitting a Pet once could get a man or woman just about mobbed if it was done in public, and Malcomb Ree had gone far beyond that.  Actually, the extreme level of these actions spoke of a mental imbalance, but 007 usually kept out of such matters and left that to Psych.  

“What are you calling me in for then?” James finally asked after taking a few subtle breaths to get his emotions under wraps.  It came easily to him, unnaturally easy - _Grim_ easy.  Very few people flaunted the fact that they were Grims, because their ability to sublimate emotions and ‘go cold’ made many people very uneasy, if not outright scared (and what people feared, they persecuted).  In James’s view, however, this skill was no more shameful than any other tool, and he used it unabashedly.  

M’s reply came swiftly and unhesitantly, as firm as her iron spine, which was probably the only thing keeping MI6 upright these days, “Considering your training prior to the double-oh programme, you were the best candidate for repairing the damage.  You’re being recalled to manage Q, because what with the progress he made before being attacked, I want him back.”  From hearing just the hint of M’s temper that was showing through, James didn’t want to be in Ree’s shoes: he’d not only attacked a Pet, but he’d attacked what was clearly a very, very valuable MI6 employee and asset.  Despite not being a Grim, M could watch men and women die like pawns on a chessboard, but she also made human connections more easily - connections to people like Q.

That, and it was just plain logical to be protective of skilled Quartermasters.  Ree was going to suffer for this.  

“Q needs to be soothed and retrained,” M summed up, her tone perhaps softening the barest of degrees, degrees that perhaps only James and a few others knew her well enough to hear.  It settled something in Bond himself, something beneath the layers of armor and ice.  “Mallory - another new installment here - has been keeping him stable, but he doesn’t have the background or familiarity with Pets that you do.  Q’s agreed to your intervention and assistance already, but is also severely traumatized and largely non-verbal, so you’ll have to tread carefully.”

“Always do.”  James slung his bag up over one shoulder, somehow managing to make it all work with his expensive suit and silk tie.  

M’s tone was wry, “You _never_ do.”

“Say that to the man who trained me.   _This_ I will take seriously,” James replied with far less blitheness, and headed out the door to catch the next flight home.

~^~

Bond had only met Q once, and it had been back before the unplanned demolition of MI6.  The previous Quartermaster, a man with a balding head but young, calm eyes, had been working at a standing terminal with pen and paper in hand.  Q - or whatever his name had been, before the title swallowed it whole - had been kneeling by his side, all big hazel eyes and tousled hair.  Like any Pet, he looked perfectly at home there, as relaxed as a cat in a windowsill.  The pad beneath his knees seemed comfortable, and the computer pad in his hands likewise looked fitting there, and James had indulged in a bit of staring as the lithe young man’s fingers danced dexterous patterns across the touch-screen.  His pale skin looked like it didn’t get much sun, but it was well accented by the black leather collar he wore, snug and buckled with silver.

Pets made up a small percent of the population, but everyone was aware of them, so the rest of Q-branch went about its business with only occasional glances in the Pet’s direction.  

At the time, Bond had been in to be outfitted for a new earpiece that would fit more snugly and be harder to see, so the old Quartermaster had stroked not-yet-Q’s head once, gently, to dismiss him.  The bespectacled young man had smiled and unfolded himself from his kneeling position with enough grace to have 007 nodding in approval.  From the start, Bond had admired and respected Q as a Pet, but it was only after M’s report that he likewise respected him as an effective Quartermaster of MI6.  Bond had known M long enough to be able to read into her actions and tone, and that one phone call had said a lot about how much M wanted her new Quartermaster back at his post, which in turn said a lot about his abilities, especially with so little time to prove himself.

When Bond met Q for the second time, in a private room in Medical, he felt his Grim heart give a rare pang of sadness, seeing just how far the young man had fallen from the relaxed, graceful thing that he’d seen sitting comfortably at his old Quartermaster’s feet.  

Q wore no collar now, his throat a vivid mass of scarlet and violet bruises instead, and opposed to kneeling comfortably he was curled up in a small ball in the room’s one chair.  The chair was situated in the corner of the room and as far away from approaching visitors as he could get, with the bed between them.  Q’s huge, expressive eyes were already on James, and despite the fact that he’d been warned about Bond’s visit, he looked terribly scared.  His long legs were folded up close in front of him and the tape over his nose didn’t allow him to wear his glasses yet, completing the terrible picture..  Q’s eyesight was good enough to note someone entering the room, at least, and the Quartermaster trembled visibly as Bond entered.  In the hospital scrubs and sans spectacles, he looked fragile, small, and far younger than his years.  

Mallory was walking on Bond’s shadow.  As Q’s keeper until now, Mallory knew the most about Q’s psychological condition, and had been dutifully filling James in.  As Bond had expected, however, the other man was off-put and less than pleased with who was going to be taking over Q’s care, even though Mallory himself admitted that he didn’t know what more he could do, “Q can’t stand physical contact.  All the Pets I’ve ever known thrive on physical touch, and I know that they can sicken and even die if it’s withheld,” Mallory had stressed en-route.  Their pace had been easy and slow, so 007 took the offered time to soak in Mallory’s words with their frustrated edge.  “I’ve touched him only a little bit more than the doctors have, and he’ll tolerate it for a moment or two - even lean into it - but then he’ll pull away,” Mallory finished in a tightly controlled voice that did nothing to hide the way his pace had increased and his posture had stiffened.  James was trained to read people, so it was hardly difficult to see how bothered Mallory was by all of this, and if James weren’t a Grim, he might have sympathized.  

Sympathy wasn’t something that James was good at, but patience was, so he just waited until the inevitable topic of his disposition arose.  Mallory’s eyes slid his way, and M’s new second-in-command commented quite boldly, “When I heard that M was bringing in someone who’d know how to best rehabilitate a Pet, I wasn’t expecting that person to be a Grim, much less a 00-agent.”

Eyes forward, Bond let his mouth curve into a cool smile.  “Which bothers you more?” he asked with equal audacity.

To his credit, Mallory didn’t react, but simply went on steadily, “M made clear that you had extensive training in the matter, and I looked up your records.  I still find it hard to believe, because I’ve never heard of a Grim going through that kind of training - or even _wanting_ to.”

“That’s probably because I’m the only one who has, at least to my knowledge,” James shrugged.  M had told him to play nice, and since M apparently trusted Mallory… then 007 could, too.  So he forewent the power-plays and games that he was so good at, and simply kept answering, “My mother was a Pet.  It left me rather inclined to understand them.”  ‘ _And feel for them.  Even when I’m not inclined to understand and feel for anyone else_ ,’ Bond thought but didn’t say.  There was trusting someone and there was baring one’s soul to someone, and M’s trust of Mallory only encouraged 007 to go so far.

Now Mallory showed surprise.  “That’s not in your file.”

To that, Bond had merely smiled a bit more blandly and increased his pace to step ahead.  “I suppose you’ll just have to decide whether I’m lying about it or not, won’t you?” he offered jovially.

Now, Mallory was ahead of him again, and walking up to Q to make introductions, as was only proper between a Pet and a stranger.  There were rules to be followed, rules of respect, and Bond was glad to see that Mallory knew them, despite his admittances of not really knowing how to handle Q at all.  Q relaxed fractionally when Mallory stopped about two meters away, giving James a good idea how far Q’s eyesight went without glasses, and the young man leaned his head into Mallory’s customary touch to his hair, even if he didn’t smile.  The cut healing on the left side of his mouth perhaps precluded smiling, and not for the first time, James had to fight a rare surge of emotions that rose hotly in his cold, cold core.  Malcomb Ree deserved to die, and he deserved to die _slowly_ for what he’d done to the Quartermaster of MI6.

“Q, this is James Bond, the agent that M and I discussed with you,” Mallory was saying, having removed his hand awkwardly.  James wondered if he himself was the only one who saw the brief war of emotions in Q’s hazel eyes - desperate desire and crippling fear - before he stopped looking at the withdrawn hand and instead turned to glance shortsightedly Bond’s way.  There was a stiff moment, as if Q were trying to recall a protocol that he barely knew anymore, but then he inclined his head to show he understood.  

James remained where he was, just watching and assessing, gathering data in every little glance.  He was learning things from Mallory, too, namely that the man was caring but definitely out of his depth.  People tended to simplify Pets in their heads, forgetting that they could be terribly complicated.  For example: everyone knew that Pets were very empathetic, being nearly opposite of Grims in their easy understanding of emotions.  However, few people realized that it was virtually _impossible_ to fake emotions around a Pet because of this - Bond had learned that the hard way, many times, until his teachers had finally gotten it through his head that he had to be genuine around a Pet if he wanted to get anywhere with them.  For a man who fabricated ninety-nine-percent of his emotions, it was a tall order, but James was willing to put in the effort.  

Right now, Q was probably reading Mallory’s clear worry and, frankly, _pity_ in his movements and tone - or at least that was how Bond chose to interpret as the reason for Q’s growing frown and the tightness around his eyes.  Both eye sockets were bruised, the left one being the worst, and it was Bond’s first instinct to approach and soothe it all somehow.

So he did.  

The first thing Bond had learned about Q’s particular kind: they rarely, if ever, appreciated it when kind gestures were withheld.  It would be like withholding sunlight from a lily, and Bond had actually seen people _offend_ Pets by reaching out and then hesitating.  Taking liberties was crass and rude, of course, so while 007 approached with self-assurance in his step (causing Mallory to stand up straight with surprise) he also watched Q’s expression carefully for landmines that he’d have to either avoid... or diffuse.  The latter was really what M had brought him in for, because anyone could avoid someone’s scars, but only a few could find ways to _heal_ them.

It looked like Mallory would step forward from the arm of Q’s chair to stop 007’s approach, but uncertainty stayed his hand, and that was all the opportunity Bond ever needed: he came forward unhurriedly but smoothly, not forcing a smile but letting his usual control on his emotions relax, until something small but warm bloomed in his chest.  Q still pulled back from him, handshy for obvious reasons, but James got _just_ close enough to reach out and stroke a fingertip down the back of Q’s left index finger.  

The Quartermaster froze, a line forming between his brows and his eyes latching onto the small but unexpected gesture.  It wasn’t quite intimate, but neither was it professional, and James knew for a fact that Q’s keen mind would be puzzling over how to categorize it - and James knew for a fact that curiosity was a good way to draw people in without force.  And since Q had already been dealt with brutally, force was the last thing that he needed.  

Q’s fingers twitched just the faintest bit at the end of Bond’s stroke, lifting from the arm of the chair, as if he felt a momentary need to reach up and catch Bond’s fingertip and halt the motion.  Seeing that fleeting, involuntary gesture made James smile a small, real smile, and Q must have caught the expression when he looked up.  Clearing his throat in a painful-sounding fashion, Q frowned and rasped in a voice barely above a whisper, but with crisp edges that appealed to 007’s ears, “You’re a Grim.”  He made it sound like an accusation, as if he’d been lied to, or else as if Bond’s smile shouldn’t have been there.  

If anything, the small, upward quirk of Bond’s mouth increased, amusement playing through the cool halls of his mind.  He replied back in obvious terms, “I am.  And you’re a Pet.”

Q ignored the hint of sass, pressing, “But you’re... I’m told you’re going to take me home.”  Q had to clear his throat again in the middle of the sentence, and by the end he was wincing and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain of talking until tears leaked out.  It moved something in James chest that rarely moved, and at the same time that Mallory did, 007 reached out in an involuntary urge to comfort.  Bond’s hand curled over the back of the Quartermaster’s head while Mallory splayed one big hand across his back, and the two older men found themselves matching gazes over Q’s tousled hair.  

Bond gauged the level of protectiveness in Mallory’s eyes, but before he had to decide whether it would be a problem… Mallory’s expression softened and his posture eased.  Something in him gave and he nodded to Bond as if he’d finally understood or accepted something, and then backed off.  Q was still hunched in on himself in pain, one hand lifted to his throat, and didn’t notice the conversation going on above him in body language and loaded looks.  

“I’ll have a car brought around and report to M that you’ve taken possession of the Quartermaster,” Mallory eventually said, voice soft.  

James - who, unlike Mallory, pressed his fingers deeper in the dark, wavy tresses of Q’s hair instead of pulling back - gave one more nod of acceptance, then tipped Q’s head gently with the lightest grip to his hair, so that their eyes met.  “Yes, Q,” he belatedly answered the injured Quartermaster’s last sentence.  He saw the warring trepidation and wounded hope in those intelligent, bruised eyes, and rumbled with soft invitation, “Will you come home with me, Pet, and let me make it all better?”

~^~

Grims were defined by emotions - or the lack of them.  Pets were thought to be defined by their subservience, but Bond had learned that their pivotal trait was actually trust: trust that people would care for them, give them what they needed (be that respect or physical contact), and not take advantage of the trust they showed in others.  Pets _lived_ in a state of danger, in a sense, because they allowed touch very freely by nature, whereas a Grim like James would always be guarded against even the subtlest of touches.

Now Q was more like _him_ , huddled in the passenger seat of Bond’s car and leaning noticeably away from his companion, body-language closed and shoulders up.  As a person, Q knew self-defense - everyone at MI6 went through a certain amount of mandatory training - but as a Pet, he shouldn’t have needed it, and that made 007 both more sad and more furious than he usually felt about anything.  

They’d not said a word to one another beyond utilitarian phrases since leaving Medical, but now Q shifted and cleared his throat again, the painful sound of it becoming familiar.  “M trusts you.  Trusts you with _me_ , a Pet.”  Q had to stop, and gather his voice again.  Considering that Q had had a week to heal but was still having this much trouble speaking, the damage to his throat must have been extensive - either that, or some of Q’s silence was psychological, a result of being attacked where no one could hear him cry for help.  Bond was determined to see both issues resolved.  Q managed a longer sentence this time with his quiet rasp, “I never thought that she’d trust a Grim that much.”

“M and I have known each other a lot longer than most in this profession,” Bond allowed with a wry quirk of one side of his mouth.  He kept his eyes on the road even though he was aware that Q was staring at him.  The younger man was probably watching and listening for signs of a lie - something that even the youngest and most naive of Pets was very, very good at, and while Q was youthful he was _not_ naive.  Or, if he had been, the brutal attack by Ree had stripped him of it.  That single reminder had Bond’s smile falling away, and he drummed the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel even as he maneuvered through traffic.  “Do you think that her trust is enough for you?” Bond asked, voice soft, calm, and even, carefully lacking in any accusation because it was a legitimate question, and if the answer was ‘no,’ 007 would very likely have to turn around and take Q back to MI6.  

Q shifted where he sat, plucking at his seatbelt and looking down at his bandaged knuckles - he _had_ put up a fight, even if he’d been outmatched.  He was feisty, and Bond knew that, and hoped that he could bring that side out from behind the fear and anxiety and depressed introspection that he was reading all over Q’s demeanor right now.  “It’s enough,” Q finally whispered, almost too softly to hear, and 007 felt his shoulders relax from tension he hadn’t known he was carrying.  

Still, James had to press, “You’ll trust me to be your keeper this weekend?”

The Quartermaster still didn’t lift his eyes, and his voice was dull and somber beneath the hoarseness of it, “Yes.”

Bond felt a disgruntled growl start in the back of his throat, but suppressed it.  He didn’t want an unwilling partner in this, but he doubted that he’d get a one-hundred-percent eager one either - if Q were that enthusiastic, then he wouldn’t need any rehabilitation.  So far as Pets went, Q was damaged goods right now, and M had assigned Bond to correct that (something that Bond took personally, because Pets had never been just ‘goods’ to him).  Still pulling no punches because this was a serious matter, 007 asked once more, “You’ll trust me to retrain you?”

Q’s head twitched upwards at that, and his eyes flicked up, looking past a thick fall of wavy, dark bangs to fix on Bond’s face.  Q’s glasses were in a case, along with a duffel bag of his things in the back seat, but he could see well enough at this distance, 007 wagered - well enough to see that 007’s expression was stern but also open, a winter landscape devoid of summer’s leafy green clutter.  By the way Q’s mouth turned down at the edges and his brows drew together, he didn’t know what to make of that, coming from a 00-agent who kept secrets for a living.  Finally, the younger man answered, “I need retraining.”

“That wasn’t my question.  Do you trust me to do it?”

This time Q made a pained noise of avoidance and dropped his eyes again, and Bond let it go.  Whether Q was dodging the question or not was moot, because Bond _knew_ that Q’s throat was hurting him, and the last thing James wanted was to cause the Quartermaster more pain.  

So, instead of letting his question fester while he awaited an answer, James just started to talk.  “I’m going to set you up in my house as if you were my own Pet.”  He purposefully didn’t glance over when his peripheral vision caught movement, as he caught Q’s attention again.  “You’ll have your phone within reach - always - and I trust that you of all people will be able to send an alert to MI6 should I do anything you don’t like.”  That’s where Ree had been smart: he’d caught Q without his tech, without a mobile to call for help on.  The Quartermaster remained curled up like a pill-bug in the passenger seat, but 007 was above all patient, and hoped that he was sowing seeds of trust that would bloom with tending and time.  “You’ll be with me at all times, whether I’m eating or cleaning my gun.  That includes sleeping with me.”  Q actually didn’t react much to that, which assured 007 that Ree’s attack hadn’t had a sexual component.  Hearing it from Medical wasn’t the same as seeing evidence for himself that Q’s attack had been restricted to punches and blows, and most Pets were very relaxed regarding sex - until they were hurt.  Sex wasn’t what James had in mind, though, but he’d leave Q guessing.  This was an exercise in trust, and part of the trust between a Pet and his or her keeper was letting said keeper take over important decisions like that.  

“You’ve kept…?”  Q was unable to finish the sentence, as his throat constricted painfully, a wince radiating throughout his whole body.

Bond obliged to finish for him with a faint, cool, upward tilt of his lips, “Have I ever kept Pets before, being a heartless old Grim?  Yes, I have.  Or did M neglect to mention my background?”

“It’s interesting, that’s all,” was all Q croaked out in regards to Bond’s background, and he looked so perturbed that James actually laughed - which garnered him a truly startled expression this time, because a real laugh wasn’t something that Grims did often.  And this _was_ a real laugh.  Bond was learning more about his Quartermaster by the second, and clearly the boffin didn’t like not understanding things, and at the top of his ‘do not understand’ list sat James Bond right now: spy, assassin, Grimm, and graduate not only from a university that had primed him for the Navy but another, more selective, sensual school that had taught him how Pets were best handled… and how they _liked_ to be handled.  

They went silent again for the rest of the drive, with the exception of a few more topics, largely mundane in nature: allergies, triggers, various bits that Bond _needed_ to know about Q if they were to get along in even the remotest fashion.  Most of it he’d already gotten from the dossier given to him, but hearing things by mouth had always appealed to James more than paper, because lips had a harder time slipping lies past him than a stoic, printed page did.  He kept the questions to the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ variety as much as he could, and therefore Q’s voice was spared as much as possible before Bond returned to the question that Q hadn’t answered, just as they were pulling up to the curb in front of Bond’s building.  The agent switched off the engine and turned to Q, who fidgeted but briefly met his eyes.  “Q?”  That garnered another fleeting rise of hazel irises.  Bond ploughed onwards as calmly and steadily as a true ship through icy seas, “I’m going to push you, and I need to know when you’ll push back, and when you’ll trust me to keep pushing.”

There was that uncomfortable throat clearing again, and this time Q grimaced and lifted a hand to his neck with a wincing little whine.  James wanted to soothe the sound away, but this time he remained where he was, turning in the seat and waiting for a reply of some kind to show that this would work - because Bond knew that if he pushed on something that wouldn’t give, the only result would be him breaking it.  He needed to know that Q would bend.  

Since they didn’t actually know each other besides brief looks and detailed files, this depended entirely on second-hand trust and rumors - Bond rather hoped that the former outweighed the latter, because he had a pretty good idea what the rumor-mill said about the notorious 007.  M was a more dependable source, and had presumably told Q that there was more to James than the Grim that killed and fucked his way through missions at a terrifying pace.  Still, even for a Pet, that was a very small thread to hang one’s health and safety on, especially with Q already at a disadvantage because of his injuries.

Whatever M had said to Q must have been convincing, however, because after absently touching the pink tip of his tongue to his cut lip - the split deep enough that it had one stitch holding it closed still - Q hesitantly raised his eyes again.  His hazel gaze searched Bond’s face uncertainly, but finally he nodded and… stretched out his hand.  Bandages still wrapped from his knuckles around the distal part of his palm, and hand-shaped bruises encircled his wrist almost badly as his throat, but the Quartermaster silently extended the limb with only minimal shaking.  

Instead of taking Q’s hand like he was shaking on a deal, James made a low noise of pleased approval and leaned forward to press his mouth against the base of Q’s thumb, then tilted his head further to scrape his chin and cheek gently against the younger man’s palm.  He felt slender fingers spasm against the underside of his jaw, and this time when Q shivered, 007 was willing to bet that it wasn’t entirely with trepidation, even as Bond drew back and said politely, “Shall we go in then?”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond takes Q home, and starts to take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post tomorrow, but I couldn't help myself ^_^ *tosses another chapter out because it's cute and makes me happy*

Most of the injuries Q had sustained were to his upper body, so he walked unaided up the flight to the building’s door, although James led him to the lift after that.  Q kept near his side, quiet as a second shadow, and by the time they arrived at Bond’s floor, the agent was getting quite used to being surreptitiously watched.  He made a mental note to see how soon Q could tolerate wearing his glasses again, because the power imbalance was just a little bit too steep for even 007’s taste, with Q wanting to keep an eye on him so much but having a lamentably short range of vision.  

Eyesight aside, the tour of the house was a process that James accepted as necessary and took very seriously.  Q’s time here would be about him relearning to let someone care for him, but that didn’t mean he _shouldn’t_ be capable of self-sufficiency, so he was shown where everything was in the loo, the kitchen, the flat in general.  Usually, 007 would have had a very hard time being so open with someone, especially regarding his personal space, but he’d always relaxed around Pets.  Q in particular was a calming presence because they shared knowledge of MI6, meaning 007 literally had nothing that needed hiding.  

By the end of the tour, Q looked a lot like a rather confused puppy.

“Were you expecting worse, in the den of a Grim?” 007 couldn’t help but joke, with his usual brand of razor-edged humor.  Not all Grims had a sense of humor; those who did invariably had the crooked kind.  

Q looked at him sharply with a chastising little frown that only made 007’s humor flair up a bit brighter, because he could well imagine that quelling look being used in Q-branch, because it looked so natural now.  Throat hurting too much to bother with talking, Q merely looked away and flapped a hand at him, before tugging at his bag - which had been hanging over 007’s broad shoulder this entire time.  Following the tug, Bond and Q walked to the bedroom that Q had agreed quite seamlessly to share.  007 shared beds for sexual reasons all the time, but nothing quite compared with the simple companionship of a Pet that he was caring for, and the ease with which Q began unpacking his few things made 007’s heart warm unexpectedly.  

Perhaps Q wasn’t the only one who needed this.  After so long ‘out in the cold,’ metaphorically speaking, 007 found the allure of something warm irresistible in the extreme.  

He watched from the doorway until Q finally reached for his glasses and slipped them out of their case, balancing them in his hand a moment before taking a deep, bracing breath and settling them over his taped nose.  “Better?” James asked, ever watchful.  Despite all of his bruises and bandages, Q seemed to relax as he looked around the room anew with his spectacles perched on his nose, nodding with a sigh.  Organizing his own thoughts with quick efficiency, Bond fixed his mind on the next steps he wanted to take and promptly asked, “Can you kneel with your injuries?  Without pain?”

Q’s eyes went from re-inspecting the room to doing the same to 007.  Suspicion lit his eyes, and it sent a pain of sadness through Bond to see it, because this was more than just the normal wariness of a Pet towards a Grim - this was the anxiety of someone afraid to be hurt again.  However, Q had enough trust in him to nod and answer with something resembling his usual, clipped tones, “I can kneel.  My… injuries… are relegated mostly to my torso… and face.”  Q cleared his throat a few times as he spoke, and glanced down at the last word.  Bond pretended not to notice, but filed everything away to be dealt with later.  

Instead of responding, Bond just stretched out his hand, leaving it open for Q to avoid or grasp as he chose.  “Come.  Let me get a look at you then.  I’ve got a spot where you should be comfortable.”

The hesitation was clearly still there, as Q’s eyebrows rose questioningly but his mouth stayed shut.  He seemed to be thinking, ‘ _Are you serious?_ ’ but then surprised 007 with his bravery by walking forward and settling slim fingers into Bond’s broader, scarred ones.  It was only sensible to be distrustful of a Grim: by nature, they were cold, unsympathetic, and often very capable of unapologetic cruelty - all of these traits in Bond had been very probably worsened by his training, making him even more daunting company.  Still, Q trusted M’s word enough to come up to him, and let himself be led back into the living room.  Bond’s fingers curled around his gently, less possession and more appreciation through touch.  Their destination was a ottoman set in front of a matching chair, both of them thickly cushioned in dark-wine-red and sitting atop dark-wood legs.  The set looked very fancy, but 007 knew for a fact that they were very comfortable - and a perfect perch for a Pet indulging in their particular dynamic.  Quite a few people would be very surprised that 007 had furniture that catered to Pets…  

Q’s position as MI6’s Quartermaster meant that he spent most of his time acting just like everyone else, work being the great leveller, but at a nod from Bond, he took to his perch easily enough.  He actually did look rather birdlike, long limbs folding up, slim, strangely elegant figure shifting until he found a comfortable spot.  He winced and shifted a few times as he pulled off his shoes, and Bond saw his hand go to his ribs.  According to Medical, they were healing, but still hurt.  Bond determined not to make his Quartermaster hold this position too long.  

“Comfortable?”

“Quite,” Q replied, his response more a movement of his mouth with no sound behind it, but 007 was a proficient lip-reader - another bonus.  Kneeling with his hands loosely settled on his thighs, Q glanced up at Bond over his spectacles, looking carefully expectant, tensed for anything.  It was easy to tell that he was using every ounce of his natural skill at reading people to try and figure 007 out, but the irony was, where Q was trying to untie a Gordian knot, Bond was actually being more transparent than he probably ever was.  He hadn't agreed to this so that he could play games with Q or hide things, and if Bond weren’t such a Grim, he’d have been hurt that Q expected such.  

As it was, 007 merely inclined his head with an approving smile and made clear, “You don’t have to try and talk.  I can lip-read just fine, provided you catch my eye first,” and then began to circle slowly.  His tread was slow and even, his posture practiced to radiate interest but no predatory intent.  It was ‘standard procedure,’ in simplified terms, to check over a new Pet in such a way, and Q actually twitched as he realized that (hearing that Bond was trained in such things was very different from seeing that training in action, apparently).  The Quartermaster quickly settled, fortunately, but also ducked his head when he realized that Bond was taking in his bruises and scrapes.   _‘Shame_ ,’ Bond identified the reaction, frowning.  He finished his circle with an outstretched hand that just touched Q’s right shoulder, and a request that flowed as easily from his mouth as water from a brook, “How about we remove a few of these, shall we?”  He fingered the cloth of Q’s jumper lightly to get his point across, and saw the indecision flit across the younger man’s fine-boned face.  

Q glanced away again, torn, his intelligent eyes flicking back and forth as if rapidly weighing pros and cons on a scale before him.  This time, sensing the need to tip the scale, Bond _did_ push, murmuring lowly, “Let me do the thinking, Q.”  When Q’s gaze flicked over to eye him with voiceless irritation, 007’s mouth twitched in an involuntary smile, and he opined, “Since I doubt that brain of yours has stopped since the moment you got these injuries, it’s high time you gave it a rest, isn’t it?  M thought so.”

At first, the Quartermaster opened his mouth, and 007 could veritably see the arguments rolling around on his tongue, but either the injuries to his throat or else the subtle logic of Bond’s sentence kept him from voicing them.  Mouth closing, lips pursing, Q looked very vulnerable for a minute.  When he looked down for the third time, head ducking, James reached out with slow, infectious confidence to place either palm against Q’s cheeks.  He was exquisitely careful, knowing very well how much bruises of that shade hurt, but he didn’t pull back when Q’s attention snapped up again in shock.  The 00-agent merely met his eyes unblinkingly, and continued to cradle the other man’s face as terribly bruised eyes searched his face almost desperately.  

Then, ever so slowly, a tiny sliver of trust leached into that hazel gaze.  “O-Okay,” Q half-whispered, half-mouthed, the word tripping its way out with nothing like the Quartermaster’s usual precision of speech.  It was so strange, so raw, that 007 followed the impulse to lean in and press his lips to Q’s thick, dark hair.  ‘ _Good, good_ ,’ the gesture reassured, and as a Pet, Q’s body reacted to the freely given, soothing praise like a proud man responding to a compliment.  Q shuddered a little and relaxed, his breath ghosting out against Bond’s wrists before the Grim backed off and transferred his hands from Q’s face to his clothing, beginning the process of undressing him.

Undressing a lover and undressing a Pet were two totally different things.  They _could_ be the same, but if so, then the point was lost: sex was sex, but what meant most to a Pet was the knowledge that they were being utterly cared for, to the point where they didn’t even have to think if they didn’t want to.  Therefore, there was reverence and practiced patience in 007’s movements instead of flirtatious eagerness or the charged atmosphere of anticipation.  In this instant, being a Grim was a distinct advantage, something that had made Bond excel at the training he’d received, because his ‘low emotional quotient’ made it very easy for him to tamp down his libido and come at this with a watchful, almost detached demeanor.  If Q were looking for arousal in his present keeper, he’d find only the barest shadows of it, flickering at the very back of Bond’s cool, Grim mind.  

The only major hang-up was that Q was healing slowly, and therefore was still stiff and sore, making undressing a practice in patience on Bond’s side and a practice in _wincing_ on Q’s.  A few times, in a very un-Pet-like reflex, Q tried to help - this made things worse, Q crying out at one point, until Bond caught Q’s chin in his hand and made their eyes meet.  “Let me do it, Q,” he said with gentle sternness like iron wrapped in thick velvet.  Another minor stare-down ensued until Q convinced himself that Bond was still sincerely benevolent, and then Q let his arms rest limp on his thighs.  When Q’s eyes also closed tiredly, Bond rumbled, “That’s good, Pet.  Very good.”  Using the title as an endearment settled Q further, and when 007 sensed that Q was just barely finding his head-space, the agent finished gently stripping Q to the waist.  He kept Q’s piled clothes nearby, aware of his promise to keep Q’s phone within reach - it rested in his shirt-pocket.  

The sight beneath threatened to put a burst of fire past Bond’s usual, cold calm.  Even a Grim was capable of protectiveness, and Bond valued Pets in general and Q in particular, because the boffin was dangerously competent in all the ways that Bond liked.  Therefore, at the sight of rainbow bruises raised all over Q’s torso and arms, Bond decided that he was going to kill Malcomb Ree.  He didn’t care what M said.  He didn’t care what morality said.  He didn’t even really care what the law said.  

“Bond?”  

Q’s voice was thin and reedy, scraping past his purple-ringed throat, sounding uncertain and frightened - a beat too late Bond realized that he was radiating fury not only on a level unnatural for Grims but blazingly bright enough for anyone to notice, much less a perceptive Pet.  Blue eyes snapped up from looking at Q’s mottled ribs to his worried, hazel eyes, and realized with some chagrin that he’d have to work to make himself unthreatening again - and unlike on a mission, he’d have to _mean it_ , because Pets could tell the difference between reality and a mask.  

Fortunately, the more time Bond spent with Q, the more he felt his admittedly crippled heartstrings wanting to tie themselves to the young man in front of him.  Q was hurt and scared and cut off from his usual methods of comfort, and beneath that, he was everything Bond could want - a mixture of calmness and genius that was as enthralling as the habits typical of a Pet, meaning a beautiful kind of subservience that was a gift beyond measure.  With all of his experience and training, Bond could steal, coerce, or otherwise take nearly anything he wanted by force.  However, this only served to magnify the rarity and value of a gift freely given, like pitch-black shadows giving the bright light of dawn its color.  

Enduring Q’s insecure gaze, Bond backed up a little, just far enough to put himself in the matching, red-cushioned chair.  It was already close enough that it kept them within arm’s reach, Bond’s feet tucked under Q’s ottoman and his knees nearly touching it.  Sitting also brought them to a more equal height, and with Bond no longer looming so much, the Quartermaster settled down fractionally.  He still lifted a shaky hand, fidgeting with the bandages across the knuckles of his other hand.  “Let me,” Bond said, a phrase that he was going to repeat until Q realized that he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore, at least for this weekend.  Thinking was for MI6, for work, but even the Quartermaster deserved to slow down and relax sometime.  

Q wasn’t happy about Bond taking his hands and unwrapping the bandages, his mouth opening and closing around little squeaks of aborted words before he gave up and just frowned.  Unfortunately, even without words, Bond was picking up on a prevailing thread of body-shame covering Q’s actions like a sickness, and it made the 00-agent frown in turn.  When he’d taken the bandages away from Q’s hands, the Quartermaster curled his fingers in and tried to pull the limbs away, but Bond carefully tightened his grip like handcuffs slipping silently shut.  He kept his hold, making clear his intent to inspect Q, as he’d promised.  What could be classified as a brief, entirely wordless argument followed, before Q sighed fitfully and allowed his hands to uncurl against 007’s rough palms.  

A few healing slashes showed across the inside of Q’s hands, shallow enough so that the few stitches necessary would soon be removed.  Q’s knuckles were more impressive, showing offensive wounds to match and even outshine the defensive ones.  Bond made an approving noise in his throat, a lupine hum.  “You put up a fight.”

“No, I didn’t,” Q rasped immediately and firmly.  His eyes were angry when 007 glanced up, but since Bond wasn’t afraid of anger, he held Q’s gaze for the seconds necessary to see the poisonous well of shame beneath.  Sympathy unfurled something rare and warm in Bond’s chest, and he turned Q’s hands over to more openly display the bruised, split knuckles.  Q made an unhappy noise not unlike a growl of his own, and tried to pull away again.

Bond wouldn’t let him.  “These are defensive wounds, Q.  No matter what you say, your hands speak differently,” 007 pressed with more of that gentle force, that velvet-wrapped sword that was the only weapon he’d use against Q.  The Pet still withdrew from him, as if he could lean away far enough that his hands would miraculously pop free.  As a compromise, 007 sighed and did release one, but with his right hand still wrapped around Q’s left wrist, it freed up James’s other hand to gently run along Q’s first carpal and metacarpal, the long line of Q’s index finger starting at his slender wrist.  The pathway was broken only briefly by the healing wound from a closed fist meeting a target, and Q shivered at the tiniest spark of pain.  Since this present course of discussion wasn’t working, and would soon devolve into Bond flat-out calling Q a liar and Q getting angry, the agent changed tack like a ship in a recalcitrant sea.  “These are beautiful wounds, Q.”

The Quartermaster’s head jerked up from watching their hands to staring incredulously at Bond’s face as if he’d just started spouting Pig Latin.  This time, Bond did not meet that gaze, but instead continued his intent inspection of Q’s skin, showing sincere interest as he cocked his head and tilted Q’s hand like a jewel to the light.  He _wasn’t_ lying.  And that was clearly confounding Q to no end.  The agent went on conversationally, “There’s a certain elegance in any wounds you survive, but those that show fight - those are prettier.”

For a moment, Q just continued to stare at him in bafflement, before he finally cleared his throat and declared, “You’re insane.”

Bond looked up and met his gaze mildly.  “I’m a 00-agent.  It’s just how I function.”

Despite the fact that Bond hadn’t sounded offended (and quite frankly wasn’t - it was the _sane_ who suffered in the brutal life of espionage), Q flushed and looked flustered for a moment, then apologetic.  “I’m sorry-” he started to say, but before he could turn them from mouthed sounds to actual words, Bond brought up his free hand and placed it in front of the Quartermaster’s mouth - not touching, because of the healing split lip, but close enough that Q’s breath ricocheted as he let it out in a long, wordless, whistling exhale.  

“No apologizing, Pet,” James said, this time infusing a bit of command into his voice, watching for signs of a bad reaction, feeling a small thrill as Q’s eyes flicked between his hand and the rest of him, and sealed his lips together instead of answering.  In fact, after a brief but weighted pause that Bond felt like a thickness in the air - encouraging him to freeze in place and wait it out - Q leaned his head forward just a few millimeters, enough that the tip of his nose bumped the agent’s palm.  It wasn’t what one would call a true nuzzle, but it made Bond’s eyes flash with very real surprise and pleasure.  

Bond swiveled his wrist, letting the  backs of his fingertips just barely caress Q’s cheek.  “Good,” was all he said, a soft murmur.  This was progress.  “Good boy, Q.”  

The words seemed to do it as much as the touch, and Q let out another sigh, this one coming from some place deeper in his soul.  Bond could all but sense something unravelling, like a bad knot being worked out by a gently massaging hand.  It helped that Q was clearly not very energetic - anxiety took up a lot more energy than people realized, so the Pet sitting in front of Bond very literally didn’t have the energy to stay at a peak of wariness around him for long.  Saying that all he had to do was wait Q out was cruel, but somewhat accurate, as Bond withdrew his hands and watched for a few long moments, as Q just sat with his eyes closed, breathing and coping.  

“Can I keep going?” Bond asked after time had stretched long enough, the silence easing into something almost comfortable.  Q’s eyes fluttered open in the most beautiful way, seeming mildly disoriented as if he’d somehow forgotten 007 was there.  After processing the question, however, the Quartermaster nodded, and he didn’t even brace himself when 007 started moving towards him again.  

This time, Bond made his inspection a bit more intimate.  It was nothing beyond what all Pets were accustomed to, their personal boundaries loose and affectionate even from birth, but M was worried that Q had been damaged to his core, so it was 007’s job to feel out (literally and figuratively) where the injuries were.  Medical had done the job of finding the physical wounds, but now, as 007’s gun-calloused palms and fingertips ghosted over long limbs and waifish angles, the Grim watched Q’s reactions for signs of more ethereal hurts.  

Having extensive experience with cracked ribs, bruises, and far worse made it easy for Bond to modulate his touch, and after a few preemptive flinches, Q realized with a puzzled blink that James wasn’t actually hurting him.  Hands that had unhesitantly killed people were touching Q with gentleness that many people never learned.  Mouth quirking upwards, because he rather liked challenging people’s perceptions of him, 007 merely kept touching, sliding lightly over mottled ribs that flared and sank beneath his hand, over a knobby shoulder that led to the most exquisite collarbone that Bond had probably ever seen - it pushed against Q’s skin like a work of art, prominent but fragile - and only stopped when he got to Q’s neck.  

Bond could tell instantly that this was where the problem lay.  ‘ _Here there be monsters_ ,’ he thought in his head, dead-serious on the matter.  The closer 007’s fingers got to Q’s throat, the more the younger man’s entire body tightened, until his slender hands were fists atop his knees, and his lithesome musculature was showing itself beneath his skin, everything taut.  Bond’s middle fingertip just hovered over the hollow of Q’s throat at that point, and he made the strategic decision to transfer his hand immediately to Q’s jawline, with a stroke that clearly caught Q by surprise.  The tension evaporated as James flashed a small smile that lived mostly in the crow’s-feet around his eyes, his fingers rising to just skim one bruised eye-socket (picking up another nugget of information, mostly useless but precious to him: Q could wink, just one eye batting closed as Bond’s fingers drew close) before sliding back into Q’s hair.  He’d guessed that Q would like this more than the threatening encroachment towards his horrifically bruised throat, and was proved right as Q sagged a little, a sigh gusting out past his taped and healing nose.  

“You’ve missed this,” Bond half asked, half guessed.  He was already pretty sure of himself, and it showed in his unabashedly knowing tone.

Which Q picked up.  He snorted softly, hazel eyes on Bond’s, no more winking to hinder his watchfulness.  “You’re very sure of yourself.”

Bond’s cold heart warmed another few degrees.  Q had mostly mouthed that phrase, apparently taking James’s word about lipreading (however belatedly), but somehow the Sahara-desert-dryness still colored the words.  Resisting the urge to retort, “And you’re a little shit on a good day, aren’t you?” the 00-agent answered seriously instead, “It’s what I’m trained to be.  In just about everything.”  He dug his fingers deeper, luxuriating for a moment in the feel of thick, silken curls, just a bit oily from inadequate washing in Medical’s facilities.  Because this was about Q and not about him, though, he curled his fingertips until he was scratching lightly at the younger man’s scalp, and felt a pulse of pride through his chest as Q’s eyes half-closed.  This was behavior far more befitting a Pet, and while James didn’t have the inherent ability to read the emotions of people like a Pet did, he was more than capable of reading the vernacular of body-language, seeing how Q was growing less afraid and more relaxed as he slipped back into old, natural habits.  

It was time to move forward then.  “You need to eat,” Bond murmured, voice barely more than a low hum, close and intimate between them.  With that, he stood, removing his hand from Q’s hair to instead stretched both hands down to him, waggling his fingers encouragingly.  For a second, Q eyed them dubiously, looking vulnerable all over again with his bare skin and bruises, and when he looked up at Bond from under his messy fringe of bangs, 007 could practically see him dissembling in his head.

But when Q’s mouth opened… it closed again, before either shaping words or emitting sound.  Very hesitantly by Pet standards, he reached out and placed his fingertips at the edges of Bond’s hands, like someone tentatively testing out a lifeline.  He allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only a little bit clumsy, frowning at his own feet as if wondering when they’d forgotten the art of unfolding from an elegant kneel.  That reflexive disgruntlement served to distract Q for the few meters it took to reach the kitchen, Bond snagging a pillow along the way, and letting it drop next to the one chair at the kitchen table.  “You good for a bit more time on your knees?” he asked frankly, letting go of Q’s hands.

Q’s mouth opened, and something sardonic flitted across his expression.  Bond was learning quickly that Q’s face was incredibly mobile, and it was honestly refreshing, considering how often his day-job dealt in subterfuge and people trying to lie to him ( _trying_ being the operative word).  This time, when Q closed his mouth preemptively and just shook his head, 007 couldn’t deny the flicker of curiosity that had him pressing, “What were you about to say?”

Stalling, no doubt, Q circled to the left of the chair - towards the cushion, which he studied with too much focus - while 007 padded slowly towards the cupboards.  He seemed to find the pillow to his liking, one way or another, because he folded up his legs and eased himself down onto it before looking up at Bond again.  His mobile made a quiet sound, having been carried with him to now be set on the floor by Q’s knee.  Having the kitchen table between them seemed to make him bolder, especially since 007 had to lean a bit to catch every word as it was formed soundlessly on Q’s lips: ‘ _I was wondering how often you say that to pretty women you bring home_.’

Bond couldn’t help it; he chuckled.  It was a brief sincere noise, rare as a phoenix catching fire, and he turned to the task of getting food made before he could see the look of honest surprise on Q’s face. Grims weren’t known for laughter.  “Cheeky shit,” 007 muttered with all the endearment that his Grim heart could handle.  More conversationally, he called back over his shoulder, “And for your information, no, I don’t use that line on my lovers.”

“Really?”  This time, Q compensated for 007’s turned back by croaking out the politely incredulous word.

“Really.”  Bond was smiling towards the cupboards again as he got out a plate.  It wasn’t a large smile, but it lit his eyes, something that none of his broader grins ever did.  He went on with a dash of charm and playfulness to his tone, “That line’s just for you, Q.”  He didn’t turn to see what expression that won him, deciding Q could keep that to himself - a little nod towards privacy.  Bond wasn’t here to own Q, just to care for him and heal him a bit.

Bond ended up making a sandwich.  Someone had come in ahead of him and refilled his pantry, but he still didn’t want to take any more time away from Q than necessary, so the few minutes it took to put ham and cheese on bread was perfect.  Then he turned his attention back to where it mattered, to the Pet sitting with a mixture of wariness, curiosity, and rather transparent hunger next to his chair.  Q shifted his weight uneasily when Bond sat down, so the Grim gave in to the instinct - or perhaps the training - that said, ‘ _Touch him_ ,’ and reached down with a free hand to cup his hand around the back of Q’s nape.  

The Pet sucked in a sharp breath, but didn’t fight as the curl of Bond’s fingers kept him close.  His posture had gone stiff, his lips pressing a sharp line, but this was one of those moments where Bond knew he had to push, so he didn’t draw back like most people would have.  With Pets, _not_ touching was usually more damaging than anything else, even if Q was treating it like bitter medicine right now.  He’d seen how easily a retracted hand translated to abandonment in a Pet’s eyes, to rejection.  Bond looked down at Q now with a flat, frank gaze that came so easily to one of his own breed, as did the candidness of his tone as he asked bluntly, “Am I hurting you?”

Bond was almost totally sure that he wasn’t, because he _knew_ how to hurt people, and had learned long ago how to extrapolate the opposite.  He also knew how to make a Pet purr like a kitten, but he couldn’t do the latter unless Q let him, and right now Q was reacting to the smallest touch like it burned.  For a second, Q’s eyes looked like the eyes of a wild thing, flashing up to meet a gaze as steady and unflappably cool as a glacier.  However, after a loaded, lightning-charged second, Q hissed a breath out past his teeth and seemed to purposefully deflate.  

His eyes didn’t leave Bond’s, didn’t blink.  They searched his face almost desperately, though, as he’d done numerous times already, and 007 let him because Q had to figure out how to trust him on his own.  Especially when it came to dealing with Grims, a Pet’s trust was not only earned but _learned_ , and he didn’t want Q struggling with the language just because Bond wouldn’t give him time to read it.  

“No,” Q rasped out his answer after almost a full minute of stillness and silence.  It was clearly grudging, so 007 didn’t move, didn’t remove his hand yet.  He could still feel the steady pressure of Q leaning back against his grip as if to break it, although it fortunately hadn’t come to a real test of strengths yet - Bond would win that test, tidily.  That wasn’t what he was here for, though, so he remained sternly still and silent until Q sighed out a second time, and this time seemed to release a larger measure of anxiety with it.  “Sorry,” was his his reply, painfully muttered.  

Bond accepted the answer and let go slowly, although only so that he could drop his hand to give Q’s shoulder a little squeeze.  “Don’t apologize, Q,” he reminded, but in a low and soft enough tone that it was clearly something of an apology itself.  00-agents just weren’t very good at voicing regrets, but after putting Q through that little ordeal, Bond figured the younger man more than deserved it.  

Food proved a better apology, as it distracted from the small exercise in boundary-pushing.  Bond still remembered Q sitting primly and naturally at the feet of the previous Quartermaster, and while this experience now was made awkward by Q’s wariness, it was still clear that Q was falling back quickly into old, comfortable habits.  He watched Bond’s hands more than his face as the sandwich was quartered; his lips parted a bit in hungry anticipation as the quarters were cut again into bite-sized pieces, which was only polite when feeding another.  Some of the unease returned as Bond reached down to him, but the 00-agent waited, piece of food on the end of a fork to start the process slow.  Most people, even strangers, could get away with feeding a Pet by hand immediately - again, it had to do with intimacy boundaries, which were aligned differently in Pets.  Hand-feeding was as much a gesture of politeness and goodwill as a companionable hug or a deferential bow was for others, but since Q was _a lot_ off-balance right now, Bond inserted a bit of strategic distance.  He also met Q’s eye squarely when the bespectacled young man looked up at him suspiciously, letting the Pet read him, knowing what he’d find: patience, acceptance, a lack of judgment.  He’d also find that, even while keeping Q at a distance with a fork, there was no rebuke there, and perhaps that was what had Q’s eyes looking suddenly vulnerable and grateful at the same time.  The Quartermaster’s eyes dropped from Bond’s face to the food, studying it for only a second more before he leaned forward with an honestly endearing mixture of daintiness and ravenousness.  The piece of sandwich was gone in seconds.  

The damage to Q’s throat looked spectacular on the outside, as did the healing cut on his mouth, but neither seemed to hinder eating, so Bond was quick to get another bit of sandwich loaded up on his fork, feeling suddenly as though he were feeding a baby bird.  Q most certainly had the expectant, avaricious look down pat, and Bond felt another rare and real smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as he offered Q a second tiny forkful.  This time, Q nearly lifted his hands to assist in the eating process - another sign of something not quite right, because a relaxed pet knew, intrinsically, that they didn’t need to worry about catching or moving the food so long as someone else was in charge.  Bond made a low shushing noise on instinct, and watched as Q’s hands dropped back to his lap.   _Success_.  While Q chewed his second mouthful, Bond gave in to the urge to stroke a hand over Q’s head, again threading his fingers into soft hair for a rewarding scratch.  The hands on Q’s lap relaxed until they looked less like loose fists, long fingers spreading.  

When they reached the last piece of sandwich (Bond having gotten a few pieces himself), the Grim forewent the fork, instead picking up the bread with its entrapped filling between his fingers.  It was with great pleasure, some pride, and a measure of relief that 007 watched Q lean forward with barely a pause and take the offering just as easily.  Lips brushed his fingertips; Bond brushed back, just barely stroking Q’s chin once his hand was empty.  

Bond gave Q the glass of water to hold and drink on his own, measuring just how much control Q wanted at the moment, as it varied from Pet to Pet and moment to moment.  Q took it without a blink and drank deeply, only wincing a little as it necessitated tipping his head back, bruised throat stretching.  When he lowered the glass, however, he looked at Bond with one imperiously raised eyebrow.  “You’re more polite than I expected,” he finally mouthed.

Bond’s lips twitched, betraying another spark of humor that was like a rare light in the velvet darkness of his psyche.  “For a 00-agent or for a Grim?” he couldn’t help but tease.  

Q rolled his eyes expressively.  “Both.”  This time, he croaked the word out loud to get a bit of emphasis on his exasperation.  He went back to mouthing words, though, after a pause to consider how much easier that mode of communication was.  Bond felt inordinately proud of himself for being so adept at the trick, if only because he could see how it was saving Q pain… and despite evidence to the contrary, that meant an awful lot to him.  “I’ve read your file.  You’re rather legendary, and your capabilities in the field and as a Grim precede you.  I was expecting…”

“More callousness?” Bond guessed, unoffended even as Q’s eyes grew troubled.  Bond merely swiveled and propped one elbow on the table, letting his cheek rest against his fist.  He met Q’s eyes squarely, knowing that he could pull off the unblinking quality of a serpent without effort, so he blinked slowly to dispel the effect.  However, he also nodded and allowed, “I often am.”  Lying to a Pet never did anyone any good.  

“And it’s different now because…?”  Q’s lips stopped shaping the words, his eyebrows pulling together to clearly imply the question left hanging.

Bond didn’t hesitate, simply let the words escape as they came to his head, an experience that he hadn’t revell in… for longer than he cared to contemplate.  “Because you’re a Pet.  Even if you weren’t, you’re the Quartermaster of MI6, and M must value you for some reason, so it benefits me to be a good host.”  James cocked his head and smirked ever-so-slightly at the way Q’s expression had settled into a look of blank surprise.  “Is that answer candid enough for you, Quartermaster?”

“Until this moment, I’d have said that I was annoyed by how often you 00-agents lie, but now I’m realizing that it’s more unsettling by far when you decide to lay out the whole truth on a silver platter.”

The words were silent, but the length of the sentence forced Bond to work a bit to translate, watching Q’s mouth intently.  He found that he was liking Q more and more, and not just because he had a soft spot for Pets.  Q’s brand of subtle humor suited him, and James found himself eager to see Q back in his own branch again someday soon - because if this was what the young man was like when he was out of his depth, then he was sure to be a sight when he was in his element.  His lips still tilted upwards at the edges in a small, rare, but very sincere smile, Bond didn’t reply except to reach out a hand and brush it across Q’s head as he stood.  

“A bath next, I think,” James proposed, while the cool darkness of his psyche remained ever-so-gently lit by a candle of warm good humor.  

~^~

Bond had been glad to see proof that Q hadn’t been assaulted in any sexual fashion, but that still left a lot of wounds to work with, and Q’s body-image issues became more apparent as the two men stood in 007’s bathroom and listened to the water slowly fill the tub.  Naked to the waist, his mobile a lifeline on the nearby toilet-seat, Q hunched his shoulders uncomfortably and watched his feet.  The defensive posture made something in Bond’s chest give a vicious twist, and for a moment he stood, frowning and getting a reign on what he was feeling.  Only once he’d compartmentalized the incendiary rage he felt for Ree did he step forward, closing the distance between them, and reach out to place a hand on either of Q’s shoulders.  The Pet ducked his head down further, but made a little sighing noise like he knew a talk was coming, whether he liked it or not.  

James decided not to fulfill those resigned expectations.  Sometimes, talking didn’t solve anything.  “Let me undress you,” he said instead, keeping the words easy without making it a question.  Q was here so that someone else could take charge of piecing him back together again.  

Bespectacled eyes snapped up to his, more surprised than wary, yet again skimming across Bond’s face like he was a continually changing puzzle - a Gordian knot that re-tangled itself the instant Q thought he’d unraveled the threads.  Bond merely watched back, something perhaps playful starting to kindle behind his blue eyes even as he took Q’s silence as acceptance and slowly knelt down.  Q sucked in another little breath, this one startled, but one hand gently on his hip kept him from shying away.  Maintaining eye-contact, knowing that Q would be reading a lot from him (confidence, relaxed interest, and a threat-level that was practically nonexistent - a rare condition for a man of his profession), Bond gave Q a long moment more to voice any sort of dissent.  Again, nothing came besides a brief pursing of the Quartermaster’s lips, but then the dark-haired young man gave an abrupt nod.  Usually, Pets were capable of a lot more eloquence when getting even nonverbal points across, but Q was tense and uneasy, and the dip of his chin was likewise stiff.  Bond was still glad to see that Q wasn’t outright skittish, however, and dared lean forward to press a soft kiss just above Q’s navel.  He heard the shaky breath indrawn above him, and felt the quiver of muscle beneath his mouth.  Q still didn’t push him away, though, and James’s next  glance upwards showed a more relaxed expression on Q’s face - the little gesture of devotion had settled something in Q’s mind.  Bond reflected briefly that a Pet like Q should be used to a helluva lot of devotion like that, but perhaps his opinion was biased; he was finding his Quartermaster more interesting and worthy of his attention by the second.  

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” James ordered absently, moving confident hands to Q’s belt, undoing it with practiced but patient movements.  He’d not only feel incompetent if he went too fast and startled Q, but also like an arse, because he could feel how fragile the trust that Q was stretching out between them was.  Falling back on his less militaristic training, James slowed his hands, monitored his own movements, until he felt like he was outside of himself and watching his own limbs move, a steady symphony of bones and muscles.  Q’s hands were like graceful, flighty birds upon his shoulders, restlessly kneading the material of his jacket.  The slower Bond moved, however, the more they grew still, until the Grim found a pace that seemed suitable, and Q’s long fingers ceased their fidgeting.  Pets weren’t the only ones who could read body-language and use it to their best advantage.  Thumbing Q’s trouser-button open and steadily drawing down the zip, James remained kneeling as he eased Q’s trousers off his hips, revealing prominent, gracefully arched hipbones and lean, pale legs.  Q obediently toed out of his own shoes, allowing himself to be bared down to his pants and argyle socks.  The Quartermaster’s hands were tight now on James’s shoulders, and the 00-agent had been gripped by enough hands in his lifetime to know that it was for more than just balance.  

“I said I was going to take care of you, Pet,” James rumbled, wanting to halt any fear before it built.  He didn’t touch Q again with his hands, but he did lean his head over until he could nuzzle his cheek and chin against one of Q’s hands; it was intensely gratifying to see Q’s mouth open in a little ‘O’ of surprise.  Even more gratifying was the way Q’s hand chased the gesture, sliding along James’s jacket until it curled over his shirt-collar, knuckles arching upwards just enough to touch Bond’s jaw.  It was like a bobbing feather chasing a retreating wave upon the beach, and James felt a small, rare, but natural smile ghost across his mouth.  This was progress.  He kept talking, eyes on Q, hands resting on his own thighs, “Can you trust me to give you exactly what you need?  No more, no less?”

Q’s mouth opened, and for a moment, James expected to be interrogated on whether or not that meant sex.  However, he wasn’t giving Q enough credit, because the younger man closed his mouth again after a moment, and tilted his head, eyeing James consideringly.  One of Q’s long, elegant fingers aimlessly stroked along Bond’s neck, seemingly without Q realizing it.  

Pets’ lives were built around trust: with trust, they thrived, without it, they withered and died like a plant cut off from its roots.  Q chose to trust then, and quietly mouthed, “Yes,” while giving a more steady nod than before.  

Warmth spread like a lover’s breath through the usually chill halls of Bond’s psyche, and his smile also spread, as he finished the job of undressing Q, finally revealing every inch of bruised skin.  

Bruised or not, Q was beautiful.  Pets tended to have slender frames, and Q was no exception, although he had enough muscle definition to make him look lithesome, with a wiry sort of strength.  It was the kind of strength that Bond could still crush, but instead he brushed a thumb gently across a tiny bruise on the outer side of Q’s thigh, thinking vengeful thoughts directed at someone else entirely, someone out of reach.  The flexing of thigh muscles under his touch brought James back to the present, and he mentally kicked himself for being diverted from his task.  He had a Pet before him, naked and hurt, and the last thing he needed was a distracted keeper.  James cupped his hands over Q’s hips again, skin-on-skin this time, and tactilely apologized for his drifting focus by once against angling his head towards Q’s left arm.  The Pet’s hands were still on his shoulders, near enough for James to rest his cheek against Q’s inner forearm and simply exhale against his skin - a slow, purposeful puff of air that had Q’s fingers curling into the muscle beneath James’s jacket again.  

The tub was full.  James broke contact so that he could turn the knobs off, then turned back to Q to explain calmly but implacably, like an oak tree, “I’m going to get you into the tub, and then I’m going to wash you.  If you have any problems with that, tell me now.”  

There was some hesitation, a quick shift of weight from foot to foot; Q’s bruised ribs flared and compressed in a quick little huff of breath, the bones briefly pressing against their sheath of muscle and skin.  Bond took that as a sign to push slightly, still not moving from his position, because while this put him rather intimately close to his companion’s cock, it also created an illusion of power in Q’s favor - 007 could still have overpowered Q from even this position, of course, but for a Pet who’d recently had the fright of his life, it was natural to crave some sort of upper hand.  Hopefully, however, before the night was out, Q would realize that he could be perfectly, gloriously safe in even the most helpless position - at least with Bond.  “Q, you’ve been living in MI6 Medical, and I don’t have to have a dog’s nose to tell you that you smell like sweat, cheap soap, and fear.   _Let me help you_.”

Q’s eyes had been flitting around the room, landing on nothing, but now they zeroed in on James’s again.  They looked so torn for a moment that the inner battle of fight-or-flight versus trust-and-relax was as visible as if his glasses were television screens.  When Q sucked in his lip to bite at it, however, the involuntary move betrayed him, and Q’s attention was entirely diverted by a burst of pain from his split lip.  When Q’s eyes closed and his body gave an all-over flinch, James sighed and stood quietly, taking a gamble and switching tactics.  It worked: when Bond reached his full height, Q didn’t flee, but instead squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and released a pent-up little whimper of sorrow and pain.  James just folded him in close until Q’s naked frame was flush against him, pianist’s hands and hunched shoulders all but tucked into James’s open jacket and dark-haired head buried against his throat.  Their varying states of undress didn’t mean anything in that moment, except that it was easier for Bond to make his sympathy known, as he stroked a hand down the supple curve of Q’s back with no cloth to interrupt the comforting warmth of his palm.  

“This is so hard,” Q rasped, the words broken even without his healing throat roughening his tone, “Why is this so hard?  This should be _easy_.”

“You were hurt, Pet,” Bond crooned.  

“I feel… like I was broken.  Like a key snapped off in a lock.”  Q cleared his throat and continued roughly before Bond could interrupt him, sounding borderline furious as he got his thoughts out in the open, “It’s like some part of me isn’t working anymore!”

“Shh, shh,” was all the Grim responded at first, with a few more soft strokes of his right hand.  He slung his other arm around Q’s waist, pulling him in closer in a pose that could have easily been sexual: James’s arm just above Q’s pale, pert buttocks, bodies pulled flush from thighs to chests.  James’s low emotional quotient as a Grim, however, meant that his feelings remained cool and serene, easily controlled.  Carnal appreciation was a distant thrum at the back of his mind, far enough away that he could feel Q’s every tempting curve and not fall into the desire to devour them all.  He brought a hand up Q’s back, still being careful around his neck as he caressed.  “There’s nothing broken, Q, or you wouldn’t be trusting me this much,” he reassured, and felt an unbidden urge to chuckle as this was met by an honest-to-God _growl_ against his shirt-collar.  Q wasn’t convinced.  Stubborn Pet.  Bond pressed his mouth against Q’s ear and just breathed in tandem with the younger man for a breath or two, all but purring as Q naturally went still, freezing at the sensation of warm air even before his body fell into the rhythm: their inhales and exhales quickly synced.  Only then did James go on, patiently insisting, “Q, you just let yourself be undressed by a Grim.  If you ask me, you’re already doing remarkably well - and are probably braver than some Basilisks I know.”

Q started to answer, then winced; he’d pushed his throat far enough.  He shook his head instead, a wordless sort of disbelief that didn’t faze James in the slightest.

“Let me get you into the tub,” Bond pressed, rocking his weight - and with it, Q’s - to suggest movement.  He felt Q’s finger’s clench against his shirt, pressed close to his ribs beneath his jacket.  When Bond rubbed gently between Q’s shoulder-blades, however, and promised, “It’ll be warm.  And I already know you like my fingers in your hair, so I promise that you’ll like it when I rub in some shampoo.”

A little shiver betrayed Q’s interests, as did the loosening of his death-grip on Bond’s shirt.  The Pet pulled back, no longer hiding in the lee of Bond’s neck but instead turning to look at the tub with more interest than before - eventually, the look slid into one of longing.  Bond didn’t bother to hide the triumphant smirk, because he knew that Pets hated it when you hid things from them - even insufferably chuffed expressions.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bond might be starting to fall for Q and his beautiful wounds...
> 
> On another note, it's always my headcanon that Bond can lip-read :) I find something about that sexy (and logical, for a 00-agent of his calibre)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q still has some fears to overcome - but Bond has plenty of ideas to help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q starts to get a bit bolder in this chapter, too, for those who have bee particularly looking forward to that! Lots of mutual touching in this chapter.

Getting Q into the tub had been a delicate dance, but it was worth it: Q took to the warm water like a cat to a patch of sunshine.  It was as if he hadn’t realized how much his aching body craved the enveloping, clean heat until he’d slid into it, wincing at first but then letting out a sigh that seemed to have been dragged out of the bottom of his soul.  His eyes fluttered immediately closed, looking so painful with their rings of bruising, but so elated and relieved at the same time.  Q didn’t even twitch as James discarded his jacket, rolling up his shirt-sleeves to begin his task.  

Q did more than not flinch, however, much to 007’s surprise: just as James knelt up to reach for a wash-cloth, one of Q’s hands came up out of the water, reaching for him and hesitating just before touching.  “You can...”  Q’s voice was hesitant, almost shy, and he had to pause and give a little cough before he went on at a whisper, “I mean… can you…?  Can you undress more, too?”

Interest was clear in James’s eyes, he knew it, but he still stopped and angled his head.  “If you can tell me why you want me to.”

This time, Q didn’t shy away, and didn’t bottle anything up.  He was already struggling his way through speaking, and seemed determined to keep going now that he’d started to voice something he wanted - usually, Pets were quite vocal about their desires, at least until they knew a partner long enough that those wishes were instantly understood without a _need_ for words.  “This… feels odd.  And you’re going to get your clothes terribly wet this way.”

Bond chortled quietly; trust MI6’s most highly-ranked Pet to be practical.  Still, Q had fulfilled his end of the bargain, so James merely shrugged, “Fair enough” and began to unbutton his shirt with unhurried hands.  It gave him time to decide just how undressed he planned to get, because for all that Q seemed more relaxed, he still didn’t want the younger man to feel pressured or threatened in any bodily way.  Therefore, when James was stripped down to his pants and sleeveless tank top, he stopped, making it clear with body-language that he was comfortable at this point - and Q let it be.  Hazel eyes had watched the whole time, even as Q kept the rest of himself submerged in hot water up to his chin.  It felt… right, somehow, that Q’s eyes watched with polite appreciation rather than the avarice James was used to.  The Grim had set the tone for the evening, creating boundaries, and Q was naturally following them.  It made something that was usually monstrous in James settle down and purr, a hum deep in his soul.  

“Good enough?” James asked as he dropped to a low, easy crouch by the tub, bare arms over bare knees, relaxed and patient.  Perhaps a little bit of interested playfulness danced around his eyes and made his smile crooked, too, as he felt Q’s intelligent eyes on him like a light but physical touch.  He remembered something about Q having an eidetic memory, and resisted the urge to preen a little, knowing that he was being slowly memorized.  If asked, he’d have been hesitant to admit it, but Bond realized now that he _wanted_ Q to remember him, like an image etched in bronze.

Instead of mouthing words or testing his throat on another verbal answer, Q merely stretched out a hesitant hand again.  Pets thrived on touch, so James was neither surprised nor bothered when fingertips made contact this time, landing on his cheekbone.  Usually, Pets were very free with physical contact like this, a fact that society accepted and made accommodations for - Q, however, had just survived a lot of _violent_ contact, so now his hands froze and paused there, waiting to be rebuffed.  James kept himself utterly still, nothing about him moving except each steady, slow breath that filled his chest.  After about five seconds, Q released an almost inaudible sigh and relaxed forward against the side of the tub, giving him better reach to glide his fingers from Bond’s cheek to his ear to his hair.  It was a bit like watching a flower coyly opening, revealing its true colors underneath.  

James could get plenty of physical touch any time he wanted.  He was a Grim, but he was also a fabulous actor, and if he wanted sex, he could have it in any way, shape, or form with just a little bit of acting on his part - a bit of charm, a bit of fabricated warmth, and he’d have a night of naked skin on his. Generally speaking, he enjoyed it.  This was different, though.  This was a Pet touching him, an uncomplicated brush of fingers that was being given to him without strings attached.  It was the kind of touch that could not be bought with lies - quite the opposite, in fact.  It had taken James ages to learn that lies were the one bait that would scare this fish off, not get it on the hook.  Such a reversal of all that James did for MI6 felt… odd.   _Freeing_.  Even the most experienced lovers couldn’t make him shiver the way that he did as Q’s long fingers ghosted down to his collarbone, somehow polite and intimate all at the same time.

“Are all Grims like you?” Q rasped, when he eventually withdrew his hand and also settled back in the tub - leaning out of it had meant revealing bare, wet skin to the open air, and now he clearly wanted the enveloping warmth back.  

Taking a brief moment to finish cataloguing the unexpected pleasure of being touched like this, James replied with a small but crooked grin.  “Well, I’ve been lectured a few times about how replaceable I’ll become, if I create another international incident in Russia.”

A laugh was startled out of Q’s chest, which he tried to hide with an eyeroll.  At least he didn’t bite his lip this time, although he still winced the faintest bit as he tried to repress a smile.  Perhaps the Quartermaster would still have pursued that line of inquiry, except at that point, James dampened a soft cloth and ran it over one of Q’s shoulders.  Q responded by closing his eyes and purring at the gently textured stroke.  Encouraged, James moved on to trace the path of Q’s collarbones - a slow and easy sweep across Q’s barely submerged chest.  He still didn’t touch his throat, not quite, but made mental plans to conquer that last point of fear.  

The next span of moments stretched in a timeless fashion, as James rebalanced his focus so that nearly all of it was turned to Q, and washing him slowly in a way that wouldn’t awaken any of his slumbering pains.  A fraction of attention remained on the house around them, the wariness of a predator always alert for danger, even in the safest of places.  Q’s bruises were vivid and stark beneath the soon-soapy water.  James traced the cloth around them like an act of memorization, and only later took the cloth over them.  It was easy to see the way Q tensed subtly, even if his eyes remained closed and his body still overall.  Pets could read people like open books, but James read bodies just the same, and was trained to see the subtle definition of muscles tightening as they expected discomfort.  James, though, for all that his hands were brutal tools most days, managed to drag the cloth down Q’s bruised ribs with such lightness that Q let out a startled exhale and relaxed.  James wanted to say something, to tease Q about not all Grims being as brutish as expected, but instead just smiled and continued about his task.  Q’s skin felt wonderful and silky when he brushed it.  

Q moved, a bit awkwardly, as if to take the cloth when James moved on from Q’s torso to lower ranges of his body.  It was a transparently half-hearted effort.  The dark-haired young man was clearly half-asleep, eyes blinking open torpidly and movements clumsy and slow as he made a self-conscious noise and reached for the cloth.  James held still when slim fingers closed around his wrist, but didn’t let go of the item.  “Q,” he said, waiting until he had bruise-ringed eyes on him, “I’ll keep asking this as often as you need, but in return I need you to answer me truthfully.  Do you trust me to take care of you?”

There was a pause, and the familiar searching of Q’s eyes across 007’s face.  They were fairly close together - close enough, Bond judged, that Q could see him clearly even without glasses.  Q did answer, however, and while his voice was soft it didn’t sound forced, “Yes.”  

“And do you believe me when I say that I’m not interested in molesting you?”  The words were blunt and probably crass, but 00-agents were blunt and crass creatures, and James had learned that utmost sincerity was the language Pets liked best.  So he didn’t blink or flinch away from Q’s gaze as he spoke, tone steady and calm as a mountain.  “This is just a bath, and I’m just here to clean you up.”

“I believe you,” Q croaked, voice getting raspy but words coming more quickly than before.  Even as he answered, he seemed to relax again, as if he’d just needed to hear himself say it.  Cheeks pinking, he realized he was still holding James’s wrist, and let it go.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to stop you.”

“You’re always allowed to stop me,” James said by way of reply, brushing off the apology.  He went back to his task, stroking a smooth, unbothered line from Q’s hipbone down his thigh.  

“You’re twice my size,” Q reminded.  His voice was a bit clearer, and perhaps it was the steam in the room soothing his throat.  “All muscle.”  

“Which, if you were an enemy operative trying to stop me, would be quite an issue for you,” James said airily as he moved the cloth over more bare skin, watching with some amusement as he learned that the back of Q’s thighs were ticklish.  “But, since you’re a Pet in my care, that means nothing at all.”  

Q hummed, quieting and accepting that.  He settled back more comfortably against the back of the tub again, and while his eyes didn’t close, his lids fell to half-mast.  The slitted hazel eyes watched Bond at first with lingering wariness, then with nothing more than idle interest as it became clear that James was as good as his word.  Even as the agent began to rub gently at the soft skin inside the gently protruding arcs of Q’s hipbones, sliding into the dark thatch of hair around Q’s cock, the Quartermaster remained still and quiet - and James remained professional.  He was a womanizer by necessity on missions, and by choice at nightclubs in London.  By nature, however, he was nothing more or less than his breed: a Grim, and therefore naturally emotionless.  Or nearly so, at least - James had a high enough emotional capacity that he felt a softly burning fire of contented warmth as Q hummed again in pleasure and closed hazel eyes entirely.  James switched over another fraction of his attention to making sure Q didn’t fall asleep, slip his mouth and nose under the water, and drown.  The rest of James’s attention remained focused on running over Q’s cock with no more or less attention than he’d gently lavished on the rest of the Pet’s soft skin.  

“Let me wash your hair, Q, then I promise you can sleep,” James said a few moments later, getting up a bit to relocate to the head of the tub.  He grunted as his knees protested, thinking a few grimly humorous thoughts about old dogs and new tricks.  This was an old trick, however, as pleasant and familiar as a mouthful of good scotch.  

Q was surprisingly eager to rouse, sitting forward almost before James nudged his shoulders.  Considering the pleasure the young man seemed to derive from hands in his hair, perhaps it should have been expected.  It opened up the view to a whole new array of bruising down his back, which James had already catalogued back when Q was kneeling on the ottoman - a previously mapped landscape of landmines to walk very gently upon, or not at all.  After just a few careful swipes of Q’s back, however (feeling the tight ladders of ribs, the knobs of a straight but prominent spine), James switched from the cloth to a cup that he used to douse Q’s head in warm water.  Q spluttered adorably as it rushed over his face, and James laughed silently at his own flash of impishness.  One of Q’s hands gripped the edges of the tub and the other cradled his ribs (not broken, but sore) as the Pet twisted around to glare.  James didn’t hide the grin spread across his face - the widest smirk he’d worn so far.  

Perhaps the widest smile he’d worn in a very, very long time - at least the widest playful, _real_ smile.  The barest flicker of Q’s eyes showed that he’d noticed, and perhaps saw it for the rare treat it was.  He looked pleasantly surprised, and then James put a hand on the Pet’s wet head and turned it forward again.  “I’ll try not to get soap in your eyes if you try to sit still,” he extemporized, feeling the smile linger on his mouth.  

Q emitted a slightly raspy scoffing noise, but immediately stopped being stroppy when James squirted shampoo onto his hands - bergamot and green-tea scented, something Eve had gifted him with ages ago but he’d only found opportunity to use now - and began lathering it into Q’s hair.  It was possible to see the delighted little shiver that went down the Quartermaster’s back, and soon he was pressing his head back into James’s hands.  Technically, that and the little happy arch of Q’s spine did not count as staying still, but 007 decided to let it go.  Q’s hair was supple and slick against his soapy fingers, and it was enjoyable to put a tiny bit of his strength to use in massaging the suds right down to Q’s scalp - most of the enjoyment came from the fact that Q was delightfully responsive.  Most Pets, when in a happy mood, were very open with their emotions and reactions, and one of the most blaring signs of an unhappy or unhealthy Pet was actually when they became emotionally closed off or unreadable.  Q was definitely keeping a lot of his emotional cards close to his chest, but here, now, as James’s fingers kneaded his scalp and dragged through his hair, Q was _perfect_.  He was everything he was born to be, and it was as rewarding to watch as a peacock in full display.  James found himself still smiling, and a warmth taking up residence just behind his breastbone, a fire in an oft-cold hearth.  

Bond perhaps lathered the soap for longer than was strictly necessary before rinsing it off.  Q seemed sad that the experience was over, too, but obediently slipped down in the water - ostensibly to make washing the soap out easier, but possibly because it meant Bond ran his fingers through Q’s hair more instead of just dumping cups of water over his head.  007 also registered how Q only flinched a little bit at the presence of James’s hand at the back of his neck, cupping his nape to guide him as he lay back.  Q settled back more trustingly into the support when it became clear that it wasn’t going to hurt him, although it took a few moments of Bond’s other hand cupping water onto his hair before the troubled frown-lines between Q’s brows disappeared.  

“Ready to get out now?” James asked, still keeping Q from slipping entirely under the water by a hand at the base of his skull.

Hazel eyes fluttered open to look at him, keen and watchful and sober, as if he hadn’t been practically purring just minutes before under a crown of suds.  “Not particularly,” he mouthed the words.  The lack of sound forced Bond to infer the exact inflection, but thankfully he had training in that sort of thing.  

The Grim’s mouth kicked up on one side.  He bargained, “There’s a fluffy towel in it for you.”

Q’s raised eyebrow eloquently said, ‘ _You’ll have to do better than that_ ,’ so James obliged.

“And a bed to sleep in.  I might even be persuaded to put the flannel sheets in the dryer while you’re towelling off, so that they’re warm when you get there.”

That got Q’s eyes to lighten up, and his mobile mouth betrayed him with a smile to show that 007’s wheedling had worked.  Still stiff and sore despite the stint in the warm water, Q allowed James to help him sit up and then to stand.  Without shyness he reached forward to grip 007’s biceps, taking the offered support as he stepped out of the tub and into the promised fluffy towel.  After getting Q’s assurance that he’d be fine to dry off on his own, the 00-agent padded out on his own mission - to heat up blankets as promised.  He also had a few other things to grab.  

Q had wandered out of the bathroom by the time 007 came back for him, meeting the younger man in the hallway.  He was still cloaked in the towel, and 007 took it as another sign of progress that the Pet hadn’t bothered to redress in his previous clothes.  From a logical standpoint, it made sense - Q was clean, the clothes were dirty.  From a standpoint of trust, it was quite a leap back towards normal, because in a safe situation, Pets were quite comfortable naked.  James had many memories of being a Pet’s keeper for a weekend, and never seeing a single article of clothing on his companion during that time.  Q wasn’t exactly that shameless right now (the only thing actually visible of him outside the extra-large towel was his legs from mid-thigh down and his head) but he didn’t look particularly bashful when he caught sight of the agent walking towards him.  “Pajamas?” he rasped out, calmly and politely.  James didn’t say anything, merely led the way back to the bedroom.  

When they got there, James put the warmed blankets on the bed and left the room again, letting Q go about his business again unhindered.  He saw that Q had brought his phone with him, having no doubt fished it out of his trouser-pocket when he’d also put on his glasses to step out in the hallway.  Q’s personal items had also included sleep-clothes, so by the time James returned - already dressed himself for sleep in jogging trousers and a simple grey tee - Q was in a pair of soft, plaid trousers that pooled a little around his bare feet.  The Quartermaster was just pulling on a sleeveless shirt of a vaguely-matching dark green when James arrived, and the agent stepped up to place a warm, cupped hand on Q’s ribs as the young man wincingly maneuvered his torso.  “How much are you hurting?” James asked seriously.  He’d been given a basic run-down of what Medical had given the Quartermaster, and mentally calculated what would have left Q’s system already.  

In response, Q just made a wincing expression and lifted a hand, seesawing it in the air.  James took in the gesture with a raised eyebrow and decided, “Paracetamol it is then.  Kneel on the bed, Q.”

Bond didn’t wait to see if he was obeyed, instead leaving the room once more to give Q time to wrestle privately with any indecision he might still have.  Often, situations like this were a matter of space - when to give it and when to rule it.  James knew that he could take charge of any room he was in, and a Pet in his care didn’t have to worry about a thing, but that only worked if the other person in the arrangement accepted it.  Since James also planned to push Q’s boundaries just a little bit, he figured that a few short reprieves beforehand would be wise.  He returned a moment later, a glass of water in one hand and two small pills in the other, to find Q posed in a comfortable but easy kneel.  James paused just to stare at him.

Q dropped his eyes shyly.  “What?” he said, voice closer to its normal register after the hot bath and steam, barely any rasp present, “If the tape on my nose is mussed, it’s all your fault - you were the one pouring water on my head.”  The slight prickliness in his tone was a self-defense mechanism, and Q rocked back and forth on his heels uneasily, embarrassed to be the focus of 007’s keen gaze.  

The thing was, though, Q had nothing to be embarrassed about.  “You’re marvelous, Q,” he rumbled as if Q hadn’t spoken.  Hazel eyes immediately snapped up to him, bruised and tired, but still so gloriously expressive and bright.  Of course, right now they looked startled, and they searched James’s face hard as the Grim continued, “It’s like you were made for this.”  He stepped forward, the hand holding the pills reaching forward slowly so that he could brush the back of his fingers against a damp, curling lock of hair, the hint of collarbone just visible past Q’s sleep-shirt, a light stroke down the center-line of his torso.  “I’ve never seen someone look so elegant in a kneel.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not,” James stated flatly, knowing that Q could hear the truth in his words just as he’d read the guileless factuality in the statements preceding it.  James hooked his free pinky-finger around Q’s wrist, getting the Pet to lift his hand and take the pills.  The glass of water was handed off next as James explained in a low, warm voice, “I’ve seen a lot of Pets, Q, and some of them were so gorgeous that it almost hurt to look at them.”  Hands free, James went back to Q’s hair, which was settling into errant waves as it dried.  He buried the fingers of one hand into it, leaving his hand there with his palm over Q’s ear when the younger man caught the two pills between his teeth.  Bond watched Q’s throat bob as water washed the medication down, bruises still vivid enough to stir something hot and angry in 007’s belly.  He’d pushed the anger down by the time Q dropped his head to look at him again.  007’s other hand mirrored the first so that he could cradle his Quartermaster’s head between his hands, lining up their faces, “But there’s just something about you, Q.”  

Q’s eyes widened a second later as he read the truth behind the quiet wonder in 007’s voice.  James didn’t honestly have a good way to explain it better than that - maybe he preferred Q because he didn’t have to hide anything from him, as a fellow coworker.  Maybe it was because perfection didn’t feel real to a 00-agent, so Q’s uniqueness made him seem more real, and therefore more alluring.  James fell quiet without putting any of that into words, hoping that the brief words were enough to at least express how impressed he was by Q - and that James wasn’t judging Q’s bruises, but instead respecting them.  Carefully pulling Q close, he pressed his lips to Q’s forehead.  “I’m going to take your glasses off, Q,” he murmured, commanding but quiet, lips moving against Q’s hair, “Then I’m going to make sure that you’re comfortable, and we’re going to sleep.  Understood?”

“Understood,” Q repeated without missing a beat, and this calmness of his voice in turn soothed something in James’s chest, like a hand run down the back of a big cat.  Something in 007 purred.  Besides the generally low emotional quotient that Grims possessed, there was a wide variety of personality types, and James was definitely of the possessive sort - which was perhaps why he enjoyed this so much.  Pets liked it when someone took control; James liked taking control.  It was a win-win exchange, and the more Q relaxed into it, the more endorphins filled 007’s system in turn.  

Now came the part where James _pushed_ , though.

James didn’t take Q’s glasses off immediately.  Instead, he backed off and let go, and reached into a pocket of his jogging trousers.  What he pulled out shouldn’t have bothered a Pet in the slightest, but Q immediately began to tense, slender hands fisting where they lay upon his thighs.  He tucked his chin, too, probably subconsciously hiding the damage upon his throat.  

Across Bond’s open left hand lay a collar - little more than a strip of black velvet, it was two finger-widths wide with no discernible clasp or chain to hold it closed.  Since Q was eyeing it like it was a snake, James took the time to ask the question he’d been asking all evening, “Do you trust me, Q?”

Hazel eyes flashed, and for a moment 007 braced himself for a retort about how often he’d asked that.  The words would roll off James’s back like water off a duck, of course, but perhaps Q knew that - the Quartermaster had no doubt heard stories about how little effect lectures had on Agent 007 - because after inhaling deeply… he let it out wordlessly through his teeth.  “Yes,” he mumbled quietly.  

Because the tone was more belligerent than James liked, the agent gauged his choices and once again switched routes.  He tipped his chin towards the center of the bed.  “Scoot back.  Kneel in the middle.”

As Q did as told, James slid onto the bed as well, the bed big enough to accommodate two grown men moving about on it.  He nudged Q a little but didn’t speak, settling both of them so that soon Q was resting on his heels again, facing the head of the bed, and James was sitting in front of him - James’s legs were stretched out on either side of Q, bent slightly at the knees so that his legs lightly bracketed Q’s hips and legs in turn.  The blankets heated in the dryer had been tucked under the top quilt, and their heat was just starting to seep through.  Q’s expression had turned curious, and he inspected the novel position with guarded interest but no fear.  There was nothing threatening about it and nothing sexual, despite them being quite close together.  The backs of Bond’s thighs were flush in the tops of Q’s, in fact, and when James draped his arms over his own legs his hands unavoidably brushed Q’s.  The collar hung limp on Q’s lap, and since Q’s hands were there, too, that left him touching the dark velvet as well.  

“If you really don’t want to put it on, just say so,” James said, his tone frank but not harsh.  He knew that his expression was accepting and nonjudgmental when he met Q’s eyes, because the last thing he wanted was to force something nonconsensual on a Pet - especially not on a Pet that was also a valued coworker.  “But I know there’s something special about collars to Pets, and even if I’ll never be able to understand it, I don’t want you to lose something like that.”  James stroked the back of Q’s right hand with the soft cloth, which he’d chosen because it wouldn’t hurt Q’s bruises - and because it had such a noticeably pleasant feeling to it.  There was a reason this was the kind of collar always used first on Pets, when they were young and just coming into their own.  James continued to look at Q earnestly and speak, “I wouldn’t want you to never go out in the sun again just because you got sunburnt once.”  He leaned forward a bit more, draping the velvet strip over Q’s wrists like a false binding, and tightened his knees against Q’s flanks - an armless hug of muscle and bone.  His hands, now empty, came up to cup Q’s sides just where his ribs began, feeling the boffin’s every breath.  When James spoke again, there was a bit more fierceness in his voice, a blue cold-fire in his eyes, “I wouldn’t want that bastard Ree to take something beautiful away from you forever just because he got the drop on you once.”

Behind his glasses, behind his taped nose and black eyes, Q’s gaze was transfixed as if the words had frozen something in him.  James was close enough that he felt when Q held his breath… and then let it out again, a gentle susurrus of air followed by one blink, then two, then a wave of determination that made the green stand out against the slivers of chocolate-brown in Q’s eyes.  

The agent twitched as Q’s hands swiveled, their arms brushing.  He looked down to see that Q had taken the collar, and was now swiftly assessing it, seeing that it was designed to be affixed with simple Velcro - easy to put on, adjust, and take off at will, even if one’s hands were shaking and their thoughts panicked.  Without another word, Q lifted it and placed it around his throat, closing it against his nape.  The only signs that he was fighting a battle inside were the fine tremors that James could see in his hands, and feel where their bodies were touching.  The sign of that indomitable, stubborn, quiet strength was infinitely more arousing than any amount of shown skin, and James took in a sharp, deep breath through his nose and composed his body into respectful, watchful stillness.  Q didn’t move for a while, his hands still lifted with fingertips poised against the velvet, as if it was a snake that he’d rip off again at the slightest sign of life.  After a long pause, though, Q sighed out gustily and dropped his hands, body sagging.  James immediately raised his hands to grip Q’s shoulders, squeezing them even as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Q’s forehead.  The damp tangle of Q’s forelock was cool and soft against his lips.  “You’re brave, Q,” he said, his praise simple but blunt and sincere.  It was a rebuttal against Q’s earlier arguments, his assertions that his wounds were a sign of weakness, not of strength.  This time, Q didn’t argue; instead, he just pressed his head into James’s kiss, the movement turning into a nuzzle against 007’s stubbled chin.  The agent very nearly purred at the contact, his own body relaxing and his thumbs rubbing unconscious circles on outer points of Q’s collarbones.  

“Thank you,” Q whispered shyly against the hinge of James’s jaw.  

Despite how it went against James’s nature - both as a 00-agent and as an antisocial Grim - to have anything so close to his jugular, he enjoy the gentle puff of warm breath against his throat.  His right hand lifted (careful to avoid the collar, because Q had already taken a big leap and didn’t need to be pushed harder) to bury scarred fingers in Q’s hair, pulling Q closer until James could feel not only Q’s happy exhale but the press of his mouth against the side of Bond’s neck.  “You did all that on your own,” he evaded the praise.  He chuckled deep in his chest as Q, instead of responding verbally, wriggled to get their bodies a little bit closer together.  Q was tired, and now that he’d broken down some of the barriers of wariness, _lonely_.  In his line of work, James had seen a lot of sins - and partaken in many - but he still thought that there was no greater travesty than a touch-starved Pet.  “Let’s get you to bed, Q.”

They disentangled slowly.  Now that Q had gotten over the last of his reservations (not only about the collar, it seemed, but about Bond being a big, bad Grim as well), he was reluctant to lose the physical contact, so James let the younger man linger in his personal space.  With another Pet he might have tugged gently on their collar to get them moving, but not only was that inadviseable for Q’s bruised, sensitive throat, but James didn’t want to rush his partner.  When Q eventually gave a deep inhale and then let it out against the juncture of James’s neck and shoulder, he seemed ready to move, however.  

Trapped between the outer blanket at the bed, the blanket Bond had put into the dryer was still deliciously warm, and Q’s abused throat managed to make an absolutely indecent sound of pleasure when he slid under it.  James’s mouth quirked up at the side, both proud and amused, as he watched for a second and then reached out to take Q’s glasses.  The Pet didn’t even open his eyes as the frames were slid carefully off his face.  “They’re on the bedside table,” James announced professionally.  Q’s mobile was already there.  

James kept talking as he circled the bed to slide in on the other side.  “If you need anything, or if you’re uncomfortable in anyway, you _will_ let me know.”  It wasn’t a question.  “I’m insisting that we share space, but that can mean whatever you want it to mean.”  Because James ran hot, he’d only inserted the heated blanket on Q’s side; nonetheless, as he slid between the sheets, he could feel a bit of the radiating warmth.  Q had rolled over gingerly to one side to face him, only grimacing a little as his bruises made themselves known; the painkillers were starting to work.  James, lying on his back and only turning his head (so as not to loom) finished with a raise eyebrow, “Understood?”

The Quartermaster nodded.  While he was clearly squinting a bit to perfectly make out 007’s expression, his own face was clear of anxiety; he just looked tired.  The bedside lamp at James’s side was still on, and it was making the edges of Q’s black eyes look uncharitably yellowed.  Bond reached over and flicked it off, plunging them both into a darkness that gentled as their eyes adjusted.

Q’s throat cleared across from him.  Blue eyes turned to the noise in the dark.  “What if…?” Q started, in a gentle susurrus of breath, “...I want to touch you?”

The curious mix of politeness and boldness had James’s mouth twitching upwards at either side.  “Then you let me know,” he reiterated because sometimes he liked being an arse.

Predictably, Q snorted at him, a remarkably eloquent sound that Bond thought he heard both notes of exasperation and fond amusement in.  Then, because Q had more than earned it - and because James was far from neutral on the topic - the agent went ahead and elaborated without prompting, “You can touch as much as you like.”

With James slipping one arm under the pillow beneath his head, physically affirming his willingness to simply lay there and make himself available, Q was quick to act.  To a trained eye like Bond’s, Q’s movements were still noticeably ginger and stiff, but the Quartermaster didn’t let that stop him this time - instead, he rolled up onto an elbow and scooted closer, until he was right up next to the arm Bond had arched back.  Now that Bond’s eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting (the streetlights’ amber glow just barely filtering through the blinds), he could see the brimming curiosity and cautious interest in Q’s intent expression.  Not wanting to spook his dark-haired companion, James held himself perfectly still.  He found himself holding his breath, unexpectedly excited despite the fact that he’d been all around the world and seen any number of fascinating, incredible things - nothing quite compared, somehow, to the anticipation he felt as Q sat up and lifted a hand out, long fingers hovering over Bond’s rucked nightshirt, where the sheets pooled at the agent’s middle.  Q’s fingertips came down on 007’s solar plexus, dragonfly-light for the space of just one breath - James’s breath, a quick, shallow inhale-exhale that sought not to dislodge the touch.  Before the next breath, Q pressed his hand down until it was splayed across the same spot, making it clear that he wasn’t so easily spooked.  A rush of pleasure flowed like warm honey right down Bond’s spine, and it felt like it radiated all the way from the crown of his head to his toes.  

Q’s knees nudged his side as the Pet sat and touched him quietly, one hand staying on the middle of Bond’s torso while the other started there but meandered upwards: over ribs, right pectoral, to the underside of James’s raised arm until the pillow got in the way.  

“You’re decidedly less scary like this,” Q observed in a musing undertone, watching the path of his own hand.  

In the dim lighting, Q was a study in contrasts: dark hair, dark collar, light skin, and sleep-clothes occupying some shade in between.  James particularly liked the contrast of the black velvet against Q’s pale skin, and let his eyes linger there as he soaked in the rare sensation of benevolent hands on him.  “One of the hazards of being a Grim and an MI6 spy,” he replied blithely, “You learn how to be intimidating, and it can be hard to turn off.”

Q accepted that without further comment - his position in MI6 no doubt put him alongside such intimidating personalities on a regular basis, even if they weren’t all Grims like James.  Proving that he really was at ease now, however, Q stopped his idle caressing and slid back down under the blankets, dragging his heated one with him and making himself comfortable under James’s right arm.  It took some wriggling and some grimacing, but soon Q and all of his various aches and bruises were comfortable.  His left ear pressed against Bond’s chest, and his right arm extended until it was unabashedly thrown over James’s chest - taking comfort just like a Pet should.  James found himself gazing down at the crown of Q’s head, trying and failing to fight a smile.

“I like this,” Q said, unexpectedly sounding posh and very like a Quartermaster.  It was so amusing that Bond’s smile became fully fledged.  

“You get a whole weekend of it,” he reminded, pleased.  He carefully removed his hand from under the pillow, and was doubly pleased when Q allowed it to fold down around his shoulders.  James had already memorized Q’s bruises so as to best avoid them, and he risked a light brush of his thumb against Q’s temporary collar.  When he got no flinch in response, only a little whuff of breath against his nightshirt, he counted it as a win.  This was a side of himself that he didn’t get to indulge in very often, so James pulled the blankets up a little higher, tucking them in together and taking a moment to catalogue every feeling and sensation.  He felt like an iceberg trying to remember what summer felt like.  It felt _damn_ _good_.  Being a Grim was part of James - it was simply who he was - but that didn’t mean he could appreciate this rarely-seen part of himself that only came out around Pets.  Around people like Q.  Grims were like the pitch darkness of nighttime: they were adapted to it, and beautiful in the way the deepest velvet of night was beautiful… but they could appreciate stars, too, those foreign, tiny pinpricks of light.

He found himself saying without giving his tongue permission to move, “You can have more of this, if you want.  After the weekend is over.”

Q shifted, his natural intuition about emotions no doubt catching on to the newly hesitant quality of Bond’s voice.  “I fear that if I left my branch for much more than a few days,” Q nonetheless brushed it off wryly, “MI6 would collapse.  I’ll have to learn how to hide these bruises with make-up by Monday or I’ll never hear the end of it.”  

Snorting at Q’s utter lack of humility when it came to his skills, James raised a hand to the one on his chest, stroking his fingertips down the straight, fine tendons.  “That’s not quite what I meant,” he amended with a chuckle, then sobered again.  He’d been watching the ceiling, and continued to do so as he said, lowly and slowly, tasting each word before it came out, “I meant…  You can come back.  Whenever you want.”  Finally, he looked down, and found big, expressive eyes blinking back at him in the dimness - stars in the night.  James’s lifted his right hand from Q’s shoulder to brush back that wayward mop Q called hair, the better to see those questioning eyes.  “You have an open invitation,” James finally stated flatly.  

“That’s…”  Q blinked, obviously caught off-guard, but he didn’t sound put off.  He started again, “I didn’t know that agents gave open invitations for anything.”

“We don’t.  But _I_ am.”

“Why?”

One hand still on Q’s forehead, stroking his hair back, James applied a bit more pressure to change the angle of Q’s head; the Pet let him, and their mouths brushed, ever-so-softly.  James pulled back to speak from a few millimeters away, “Do you want the logical reason or the emotional one?”

To his credit, Q didn’t immediately make some comment about Grims not having much by way of emotions.  Instead, after a little pause, he whispered, “The logical one.”

That answer was easy, and would probably appeal to the Quartermaster in Q: “It’s not often that I find someone whom I don’t have to keep secrets from - and who also happens to be good company.  I’ve had practice at keeping my personal life and work-life separate, and I damn well know that you can do the same.”  

Q nodded, just a little bit breathless, although his mouth quirked as he caught the complement at the end of the last sentence.  James’s hand had slid back to Q’s shoulder again, but the younger man hadn’t moved.  “And… what’s your emotional reason?  For giving me blanket permission to drop in on you?”

For a long moment James just looked at Q, considering.  He wasn’t actually very good at emotions - real ones, anyway.  At least, he wasn’t good at explaining them.  Emotions were fish in a dark stream, flickering like quicksilver at the surface and then disappearing.  If he dredged them up, it was with a mess of silt and scales and was very hard to make heads or tails of.  Nonetheless, he wanted to answer Q, and because Q was an emotionally sensitive Pet, he had to be truthful.  So he said, “Because your bruises are beautiful.”  It was too dark to register a blush, but by the way Q turned his head away, he was probably pinking a bit and dodging the calmly stated sentence.  James didn’t let that deter him, but instead continued, “And because you’re strong when you’re hurting.  And because you trusted me, even though you were afraid.”

By the time Bond fell silent again, he was stroking the backs of his fingers against Q’s cheek, and it looked less like Q was turning away from him and more like Q was turning _towards_ the gentle touch.  Q’s voice was a little husky when he spoke, and for once, James doubted it had anything to do with the Quartermaster’s abused throat, “That’s a statement of love, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.  It’s a bit early to tell.”

“True.  God, it’s eerie, seeing an agent like you being so truthful.”

The mild exasperation in Q’s tone on the second sentence tricked a throaty chuckle up James’s chest and a smirk onto his face, which Q met wryly.  The warmth in James’s chest crested and then deepened further.  “I told you that I could keep work and personal life separate, didn’t I?  Truthful in the latter, inveterate liar in the former...”  When Q laughed in return, James pulled him in close, so that by the time the chuckling faded, Q was tucked against the side of his chest once more.  Each of the Pet's soft exhales soaked like a blush of warmth through Bond's nightshirt.  Returning to his more serious tone, James quietly added, “You’re welcome to keep coming back, to see if that really is a declaration of love from a Grim like me.”  He stroked Q’s back, admitting with faux lightness, “It could come to nothing, of course.”

Pets, of course, could tell faux from real.  James felt Q’s smirk against his chest.  “True.  After a few weeks… months… years… we might realize that we actually hate each other.”  

“That would be a pity.  I’d find it incredibly awkward to hand-feed a Pet that I hated.”

Q’s laughter bubbled forth again (the painkillers easing the ache in his ribs) and responded by pinching James’s side.  Like all 00-agents, of course, James took any pain that didn’t kill him as a sign of affection - so he was soon chuckling in return and pulling the blankets up higher over them both.  He didn’t care when Q answered him, if ever - or even if he ever came to a decision himself about what he felt for the lithe young man beside him.  Right now, he was already more content that he could remember being in years.

And he had the weekend to look forward to more of the same.   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There *looks proudly at my baby* The ending is full of possibilities, but I think we all know that they'll end up together. 
> 
> It's only after I finished writing this that I realized I might have written James as a demisexual...

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is already written, so posting the three chapters should happen pretty quickly :)


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